


Fans-Revisited

by arlenejp



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Abuse, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Cocaine Use, Cock Sucking, Come, Dominance, Drinking, Lots of Sex, M/M, Physical Abuse, Rape, Sex Parties, Sex Talk, Sherlock complacent, Sherlock lets it happen, Sherlock sexually a virgin, Sherlock young, Spunk, anal rape, cocks rubbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2020-10-21 20:14:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20699237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlenejp/pseuds/arlenejp
Summary: In 1600 thru 1800s women communicated with fans at a party. Used to secretly instruct a man what she wanted. It was, for its time scandalous. But, now we would look at the meanings of what the fans were saying and think how innocent it was.This is an erotic take-off on the fans and their meanings.





	1. A Club and A Party

**Author's Note:**

> I am redoing a fic I wrote in 2017.  
All the dignitaries, Earls, Dukes etc. are fictitious.  
Major death in the last chapter.

Upon my graduation from university this year of 1845, I walk away in the top five in the graduating class.  
Satisfied and content, there are no pats on the back, no handshakes.  
I had made no friends, did not want companions but concentrated solely on my studies.

My father is intent on my becoming a junior lawyer in his firm, which is abhorrent to me.  
I am desperately trying to avoid any involvement with family and their respected businesses.  
At the moment I am taking time off to contemplate my future.

I have a rented house in the heart of London with a cook and a gentleman's gentleman. A coach and four at my disposal.

Even though I am the younger, my father has seen fit to be generous with my allowance.

My brother, Mycroft, is seven years older, and a man of the world. He follows the fashion trends, wines, and dines with the best of the best.

One afternoon after dining out, I enter the house and on the front table lies the mail.  
A grey envelope-- from Mycroft.  
An invitation!  
Never have I been in the company of my older brother except for family gatherings.

The invite is to a men's club, 'exclusive' it says.  
I puzzle over the word exclusive. What does that mean?  
Not wanting to turn down my first invitation with Mycroft, and with my curiosity piqued I reply with an affirmative response.

I'm a tall man, slim, and a curly crop of hair that I love wearing shoulder length. My prominent cheekbones are a feature the ladies find attractive.

I begin with a white shirt with a starched white collar, fitting a pair of tight brown trousers on my legs. A satin yellow and green flowered vest followed with a yellow cravat. The last is the green plaid coat.  
Tan leather gloves, my gold pocket watch, and my black velvet top hat round out my costume for the night. Cannot forget my silk handkerchief!

Mycroft's Brougham coach is at my doorstep, and I enter and sit across from Mycroft.

"I am taking you to this club because I feel you are entitled to know another side of the Holmes men. We are capable of enjoying certain sexual pleasures that do not involve any female presence." "Mycroft, you are suggesting--?" my eyebrows furrowing.  
"Yes. The men in our family have sexual needs that differ from most," picking at an imaginary piece of material on his gloves.  
"Are you saying that father--?"  
He nods," He belongs to a club also."  
"Does mum know?"  
"Well, of course, we have never discussed the matter, but I am sure she understands. And your Uncle Albert--."  
Uncle Albert has visited many times but always with a different male 'friend.'  
"You do not have to partake. I would want you to understand what is available. I will be in conference with an ambassador in a private room. You may do as you please. My credit account is at your disposal."  
I am frankly quite stunned by these revelations.

My brief venture into sex was not exactly enticing. The young girl in question was a virgin, and I was immediately sorry we began the whole thing.  
I never entertained the idea of a male companion in bed, although--, one fellow student did catch my imagination, I never dreamed of following through.

Arriving and being shown into a dimly lit sitting room, with small fires burning in the three fireplaces, the place gives off a quiet, solemn look.

I can count ten men, including my brother and myself, and all are expensively turned out.

I am very out of sorts, and Mycroft doesn't make it easy by strolling off to the back of the room to shake hands--and kiss a rather portly gentleman.  
I turn away, not wanting to see what they would do next.

I decide to walk to the bar when two men enter the room--an elderly gentleman and the other in his twenties. The older gentleman has a tight grip around the waist of this young man. I can feel a certain sympathy for him. Is he a plaything? Scrutinizing the more youthful one, I have an impression of him, that he is the user, not the one being used.  
Now, here's an exciting challenge!  
Can I entice the young man away for a short time? I stand up and wander to them.  
I catch the eye of the young man, blue eyes, bright blue eyes.  
He's wearing a simple white shirt, buttoned to his neck, dark tan vest and trousers, and a light beige coat.  
He nods to me, and I bow to them both.  
"My name is Sherlock Holmes."  
"Ah," the elder says, "I know Mister Holmes, the senior, is he here?"  
We look up to see Mycroft approaching.  
"Mister Van Dan, how nice of you to come tonight."  
"I couldn't resist the invitation, Mister Holmes. Let me introduce my--assistant--Doctor Watson," turning as both men shake hands.  
"Mister Van Dan, I have an appointment in an hour but would love to discuss a certain political problem. Would you like to accompany me into a room?"  
He skims his eyes at both myself and Doctor Watson, "I want to talk with this man. Introduce yourselves, "extending his hand to both of us.

" Doctor Watson, would you like to sit and have a drink?"  
We each order whiskey and for moments stand awkwardly by the bar.

Running my fingers through my hair, Doctor Watson steps towards two high back chairs near a fireplace, a small table sitting between them.  
He turns the chairs to face the fire, and not the rest of the room.  
"I am not sure why I am here--," taking a seat.  
Chuckling, "it's obvious isn't it Mister Holmes. Let's not pretend it to be anything different."  
Shifting slightly in his seat to lean closer to me, "at the moment, I am looking for employment at Barts Hospital. I've applied and am waiting for an answer. For sport? I enjoy cards, and-- drinking. I am here to keep my 'employer' company, of sorts. I am not against having a go with a male. I prefer younger men and in private."

Nodding agreement as I scan the room and notice two men, the older with his trousers down, the other, still not young, on his knees performing --.  
I move my body not to see the continuance of the performance.

Doctor Watson hands me his card, " Every Tuesday evening if you wish, I am at the Hound Pub. My employer goes to his club on Tuesdays, and that allows me some leeway.  
Doctor Watson intrigues me. His looks, his quiet demeanor all serve to pique my interest. Who is he?

Mycroft and the professor arrive after Doctor Watson, and I have conversed some more.  
Doctor Watson stands, takes the older man's arm, nods his head at us and they say goodnight.

"Good looking chap that Doctor Watson. Be careful of his professor. We should be leaving. I'll give the club notice, and you can visit when you want."

" Isn't it rather dangerous for you in your field, the government to be playing this game?" I say to him while in the coach.  
"Have you perceived who the gentlemen there were? Quite wealthy and discreet. If there were a raid, which would never happen, the scandal would rock England."

I don't have the opportunity to visit the club, Mycroft or John Watson in the following weeks. But the Doctor is on my mind.

My servant brings me the mail and in it is an invitation to a party at an Earl's mansion and with it a package.  
I can only think it is Mycroft's influence that has me invited to this man's house.  
In the package, there is a wooden fan-- and a letter.

Sherlock, I am taking the time to begin introducing you to high society. You will meet many influential men. The fan's usage is made clear in this letter. Memorize and throw away. You can make good use of the fan or not. I will not be able to pick you up but will be in attendance.

Looking at the note, I'm shocked at what the fan represents.  
Much more than I could have thought possible, as the fans talk sex, more licentious than I would have imagined.  
Sighing, I know if I do not show Mycroft will upbraid me for hours on end.

I wonder if I will see Doctor Watson and his professor.

The evening of the party I dress in gray trousers, a bright red vest, white shirt, red tie, and a black coat. My sack coat is cut differently from the standard. It flares out slightly at the waist and has a red buttonhole on the collar.

I pull up in my coach to a tall, sprawling townhouse in the swankiest part of London. Stepping into the main hall, a butler leads me to the ballroom.  
Food, drink, and servants are there to fill every need.  
The room is bright with candles, and a fireplace with logs piled high, giving out both radiance and heat. The shadows cast leave places for quiet and discreet rendezvous.

Only a few men are gathered here tonight, and I see Mycroft and walk up to him.  
"I do not see Doctor Watson here or his companion."  
"From what rumors I hear Doctor Watson prefers not to attend these social events. Excuse me, Sherlock," nodding his head to a bearded man standing next to a jardiniere, "someone waiting for me," and Mycroft saunters off. The man's fan is held open and away from his body(I like what I see).

I watch, fascinated, observing Mycroft. He looks the young man up and down, takes his fan and holds it closed upwards (your body is tempting me).  
The young man laughs, holds his fan above his head, and waves it. (kiss me open-mouthed)  
Mycroft eagerly accepts the offer.  
I don't understand the need for these fans. Why not open mouth and communicate.

Turning away from my brother's display, glancing again and turning in disgust, I notice some of the men in various stages of undress.  
Clearing my dry throat, I think that, no I know that I don't want to be here.  
Walking swiftly towards the door, a servant intervenes, speaking in a hushed tone, "Sir, if you are uncomfortable in this situation, I ask you to follow me."  
With a sigh of relief, I'm taken down the hall to a door which he opens and beckons me in.

It's a vast, beautiful sitting room, with couches and chairs and a well-lit fireplace.  
By a sideboard is a robust-looking man, pouring the whiskey. Two glasses  
"Another gentleman who is unacquainted and ill at ease with my evening entertainment! Come, you are not the first to leave the activities. Have a drink, and we can sit. Enjoy each others company," walking closer to me," in case you haven't guessed I am the Earl. Franklin, to all."  
"Mister younger Holmes. Are you surprised at your brother's proclivity? Don't be."

I sit down in one of the dark brown leather chairs next to the lavish fireplace, "How do you know who I am?"  
He sits across after giving me my glass, takes a cigar out of a humidor, and offers me one. I decline.  
"I make it my business to know who is entering my house. I was taken aback when Mycroft announced your coming. But--one never knows--?" letting the last word drag out.  
He is older than Mycroft, his sideburns grey, and he has the casualness that comes with old wealth. Altogether pleasing.  
"I'm sorry, Mycroft did not warn me--."  
"But, "the Earl states raising his eyebrows, "you did see the usage of the fan didn't you? What did you expect?"  
"I don't know. So, open. I thought--. Aren't you worried about the authorities?"  
The Earl laughs. "Mister Holmes, there are enough 'authorities' out there not to have to worry. And with your brother in attendance, especially not."

As we sit and drink, the firelight plays shadows on the Earls face, his body. I keep glancing at him and then away. Is he trying to seduce me?  
His eyes, almost the same shade of blue-green as mine, bore into me, giving me goosebumps.  
The warmth, the closeness of the atmosphere, the long moments of quiet, the intense stares, wrap us in our own cocoon.  
My breath deepens, and a sheen of sweat appears on my forehead.  
His eyes chase along my body, his tongue laps his lips, a finger slides lazily on the glass.  
Dipping his finger into the whiskey, he traces the zipper of his trousers, eyes lidded, and languidly uncrosses his legs.  
Desire flickers in my mind, knowing what he's wordlessly asking.  
His free hand brushes his palm deliberately from his shirt to the waistband of his trousers, his thumb catching at the buttons.  
Heat pools in my groin and I spread my thighs wider.  
As my breathing ramps up, I sense what I'm experiencing.  
He's seducing me!  
Leave now! Get up! A languor sweeps over me, my body turning to liquid.

The light flickers, this scene becomes dreamlike, with the quiet of the room and our elevated breathing.

I'm a fool, but desire ramps up, licking at my groin, tightening, as my wetness has soiled my trousers with its mark.  
I let the first button come undone and drop my eyes to his crotch.  
Humming in his desire, his fingers are steady as he unbuttons, opening the flaps wide, to expose his erect cock.  
"Damn," l murmur, "damn."  
I'm lost. He's seducing me!

Down on his knees, shuffling to me, his gaze suggesting, he unbuttons me to unfold my cock.  
It springs out, dripping.  
"May I?" Those liquid blue eyes are capturing, suggestive.  
How can I say no? Sinking into my chair, legs wide open to his advances, fingers gripping tightly to the arms of the chair.  
"Ahm, oh," the only sounds I can utter. His tongue lapping, sucking are secondary to my groans.  
The Earl's mouth entraps my cock, driving up and down in a steady motion, his hand pursuing his mouth. The other hand rubbing my balls, and they tighten, bringing me to a quick release, my come slipping into his mouth.

Letting my breath evolve to its normal state, he leans back on his haunches, a grin of satisfaction, wiping his mouth from my stickiness.

"You? What about--?"

Back to his chair, he drops his pants to his ankles, and in a husky voice, full of meaning," take it, take it."  
Picking up my glass, I crawl to him, take a sip and let the liquor spill onto his stiffness.  
"Oh my god, yes, please!" throaty.

His head drapes back, hands digging into my curls, his moans deep and wild.  
I lick the pre-come, spreading it over his member, pulling on him up and down, my eyes never leaving his face.  
Open mouth, sucking breath in, eyes closed, cheeks flushed.

He pushes his hips up to me, "fuck, damn, hell," and comes, dribbling on my chin and in my mouth.

I move back to my chair, wiping off the spunk still on my face.

I've had sex with an Earl! A man who is older than Mycroft! I've fornicated--with a man!  
Buttoning myself up, I'm conflicted. I open, close and open my mouth, "I should be leaving," the sensible popping out.  
"I see," composing his clothes, "would I be asking too much if I invited you to dinner?"  
Clearing my throat, dry, uncertain of my place, "sir, I don't want you to jump to conclusions. This type of situation has never presented itself to me, and I'm not sure I would do--. "  
"Let me clarify my point. I'm sure you are a novice, maybe even a virgin," he stands.  
"The very fact that you didn't join the others is proof you're not a gadabout. I fancy you and dinner will not-- by definition-- mean sex."  
Recovering composure I too stand and, "That would be most agreeable."  
Without moving, "if tomorrow night at five is amenable, then I'll let you see yourself out."  
"Five would be delightful."  
I take the few steps towards the door, hesitate, turn to look at him, but he's already forgotten me.

The next morning Mycroft pays a call.  
"Little brother, where did you disappear to? I wanted to introduce you to our host, the Earl."  
"I saw I wasn't going to enjoy the proceedings and let myself home early," sitting in my chair, looking up at him.  
Not desiring to let him in on my every move, particularly with the Earl, I don't invite him to sit, and so he doesn't.  
" Not to your liking, you say?"  
"Too many people, too much exhibitionism."  
Mycroft snorts," ah too bad. Sometimes these 'exhibitions' as you put it can be most stimulating."

"Changing the subject, how is Doctor Watson, Mycroft? Is he under your roof yet?"  
My brother putters around the room, lifting papers with his cane, peering into my liquor cabinet, making a general nuisance of himself.  
"And what makes you think that the venerable doctor would consider such a move?"  
"You're eyes, dilated. Smoothing your hair down, arching your back--"  
"That's quite enough, Sherlock! I'm taking my leave."  
"You came to mock me, to harass me about my sexual encounters," an almost laugh escaping, " but you, my brother, what about you?"  
Mycroft turns on his heels and storms out, my laugh following.

Dressed for dinner with the Earl, I'm fidgeting with a stone statue, a book, waiting to leave. Why am I going, and what do I expect? Is it dinner only or more--more of what?

I'm at his door and shown into the library. He isn't here, so I explore his extensive book collection which ranges from history, science, to philosophy, and more.

"Mister Holmes, I am glad you're here. I did think you'd cancel our dinner."  
" If I weren't going to accept your invitation, I would have sent word."

"I'm sorry. Didn't mean to sound terse." He steps close to me, seeing a book of his in my hands, "you are admiring my book collection?"  
"Yes, I'm a book lover. And your library holds many fine editions," placing the book in the empty nitch.  
"My library is yours to visit. Borrow whatever you wish.  
My mouth curves into a smile, and I salute with a dip of my head.

"Drinks first? And is whiskey to your liking or wine?"  
"Wine would be good, thank you," he pours two glasses of white wine.  
He indicates I sit and takes for himself the same seat as last night.  
I try to suppress a laugh, but it gets away, and we're both giggling.

"What happened last night-" he starts to say, "well, that was then," hesitating, "that's the dinner bell. Let's eat."

At the dining table that can seat twenty people, the Earl has placed himself at the head and me on his right.

"Do I still call you Earl ?"  
Snickering," after what happened last night I do think that's stuffy, don't you? Frederick is fine, Sherlock. But only in private."

After dinner, we go to the library, and Frederick almost sets in his chair, pauses and sits on the sofa.

I stand, wandering the library, pulling out two science books, bring them to the table by the sofa.

There's an edginess, almost a snapping point between us. How to leap over last night? Do I want--does he want--?

I take the plunge and sit on the sofa tight against his body, thighs joined but for the material lying between us.  
And stare straight into nothing!

My head goes around at the same time as his.  
A simple kiss on the lips, touching his cheek with my fingers, running them around his ears, my tongue follows.  
His hiss, his intake of breath, "Damn Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?"  
Do I know what I'm doing? No. I don't know and don't care. Some small flicker of self-indulgence is determining this course of action.  
If he throws me out, if he slams me to the ground, I deserve it. But I have to gratify myself.

"Exactly what you want me to do your royal Fredrick sir," cocky sounding, but inside shaking, terrified.

I bow my head into his lap and blow on his cramped trouser space, wetting it with my spit.

" I will always bow to your royal equipment," my mouth nipping at his trousers, biting while his panting grows faster.  
"Oh fuck you, Sherlock, you say the nicest things."

Lifting me, his mouth bites a hard one on my neck and shoves me back onto the sofa.  
"No, no, you don't." pushing him off me, he falls on the floor. I follow on top of him.  
"As my inferior, you should be on the bottom," rolling me over, the bulge of his cock against my stomach.  
"My dear master," my voice but a shallow whisper," I should be servicing you and therefore on the top," shoving hard and landing on him.

Quickly I unbutton our trousers, pulling them down around our ankles, him awkwardly helping, our frenzy to feel skin driving us forward.  
Our cocks touch, lock next to one another, and we both grind hips until I stiffen and spurt out my come.  
He yells, moans," yes my dick, yes, yes," and explodes his load on us.

I turn myself over and lay on the floor.

"This is not good, Sherlock, I am older than you and should have some control over this situation."

We laugh, and our fingers lock.  
"I have a great idea. Why don't you get one of your servants to come in and clean us up?"  
That brings a peal of laughter from Frederick.

Soon though, I grow sober. Not able to take in, accept the enormity of the sexual change in myself.  
" I don't understand why--," guilty feelings assault and a sense of shame.  
"Don't try to analyze. Let it happen. Even if this is for a fleeting moment. I know this is not usual for you."  
He's right. But still, I cannot understand my sudden turnabout.  
Am I corrupted? Am I so different from my family?

"Sherlock, I have to be in France for about two weeks. I would love to invite you, but that would raise eyebrows. Can we see each other when I return?"  
"Most certainly, and for me, it will be a long two weeks."  
He shakes his head, "don't do that. Don't make it into more than it is, "pausing, "one request. When I return, I will host another of my parties and want you to attend."  
I look perplexed. He knows I don't want to exhibit myself.  
"Why would you submit me to this--this exhibitionism?"  
"You don't have to commit to any fan play. Just be there for me to show you off."  
" I will have to ponder on your request, Frederick."


	2. Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets someone new. Someone that changes his life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is totally different from the first one I wrote about Fans. It has more emotion and less of the fans.

Most days I live a solitary life. My mother calls every week. She is continually prodding for me to visit.  
My unease keeps me away.  
My father is the key to my anxiousness. Opposed as I am to his duality.  
Is he aware of Mycroft and his idiosyncrasies?  
Where on the spectrum does that leave me?  
Another situation is how to approach mother! Can I keep my demeanor untainted?  
Do I assume she is accepting of father's indiscretions?

* * *

Do I now have a choice on my inclination?  
Having never explored my orientation I am disoriented and taken aback.  
The Earl has become a significant part of my thoughts.

An invitation sits on the silver tray by my teacup as I eat breakfast.

It's Mycroft's stationery.  
Sliting it open, I sigh.  
It's an invite to his house for the evening meal this coming Thursday.  
If my conclusion is spot on I suspect a third person in attendance.

* * *

My carriage stops at Mycroft's townhouse, and the servant sees me into the parlor.  
It's fireplace lit, the candelabras giving off a soft glow to the room. Mycroft has talked of bringing electricity to his home but has hesitated.  
The many cushioned chairs and sofas are ancient and well worn, although still good in appearance.  
On one side is an antique mahogany desk. I have admired it for years. It belonged to my fathers' father, but Mycroft claimed it as the eldest.

My brother is by the sideboard pouring drinks and nods as I walk in.  
Sitting by the fire, legs up on an ottoman is Doctor John Watson.  
Mycroft did gather him up after all.  
Once I understood where Mycrofts sexual leaning was, I knew that Mycroft would be very predictable. He always managed to lay hold of what he required or what he felt necessary towards his well-being.

" Dr. Watson, how delightful that you're here," my pulse rising, baffled at my behavior.  
Something oddly unheard of stirs in my chest.  
Sherlock Holmes, are you having disruptions of your heart? Both Frederick and now Watson!

" Your brother has been generous to a fault since my former benefactor has been, how shall I delicately put it, removed by the law. I am invited to stay here until I can easily find a location that suits." I stare intently at the blond-haired man. What intrigues me about him I wonder?  
Mycroft hands glasses of whiskey to us, a smirk on him that does not go unnoticed by me.  
I remain standing, while both men are seated.  
"Gentlemen, dinner will be ready shortly," Mycroft never takes his eyes off John Watson.  
"Mycroft, I gratified to know that you and the good doctor have anything remotely in common to discuss," taunting him.  
"Sherlock," admonishing, snapping.  
Undeterred, " After all, your interests lie in politics and government, and Doctor Watson's is in the-," pausing to underscore my point," the body--so to speak."  
"Sherlock if you don't restrain your mouth this instant, you will be--,"  
"Oh, brother mine?" half turning to him but keeping my eye on John," would you resort to flogging me?"  
John rises, brushing his shirt, " Do go on. I'm enjoying this greatly. My sister and I have the same dynamics as you two."  
Mycroft crosses his arms, leaning against the chairs support, "do tell me--who gets the last word?"  
"That is debatable as I imagine it is with both of you," bowing his head.  
At that very moment, dinner is announced, and Mycroft walks to John Watson's side. Possessively!

* * *

"Doctor Watson, what are your long-term goals?" at the table, the main course just arriving.  
"Please, while we are not in public I should like you to refer to me as John--," he looks toward my sibling, "I recently found employment at Barts Hospital. That will keep me occupied until I open my clinic." Mycroft places his hand over Johns, his thumb tracing circles, "In the short time Doctor Watson has been here he has proven to be an--outstanding-- companion."  
My jaw clenches. Surprised! Am I jealous?

* * *

After dinner, Mycroft excuses himself," I have a message to send. I'll only be a few minutes. See yourselves into the parlor."  
John Watson stands by the fire, " Mister Holmes, Sherlock, contrary to what you believe, your brother and I have not had any intimate contact. I think he is trying to goad you."  
"Then, John Watson, two can play that game. I would enjoy your company at my home one night. Can we plan for an evening?"  
The doctor laughs and agrees to this Wednesday for drinks.  
"I'm enjoying being fought over as a prize."  
"Are you--," and before John can come back with a retort, Mycroft enters, his eyes darting to each of us.

* * *

The next afternoon my man announces a visitor. It's John.  
" I was out taking a stroll and thought you would enjoy some company. I know we were supposed to meet Wednesday but-- I hopped a cab, and here I am. Hope I'm not intruding," standing at attention.  
"Let me get my coat and hat," and he follows me to the foyer," It's a good day for walking, don't you think-- Sherlock?"  
"I'm delighted to have your companionship today," taking care to avoid the young children scrambling along the path in the park.

Coffee and biscuits at a small cafe, small conversations, and I'm very at ease with this man.  
Looking up at the darkening sky," I think we should end this day and call a cab before there are none to be had."  
The rain begins just as we clamber in and John says," a good day Mister Holmes. Why not do this again."

* * *

John is a formidable chess player and our games revolve around his work schedule. Mostly in the afternoons.  
His soft exterior belies a toughness, a strength of character. I believe that if my brother were to try to engage John in his perversion, he would find it difficult.  
John Watson has a mind of his own.

I am very conscious of his nearness, finding every excuse to lay hands on him.  
I covertly eye him, and strangely I even catch a glimpse of him doing the same.

But the simple fact of him being in Mycrofts care stops me from--.  
From what, Sherlock Holmes? What are you expecting to occur? John never indicates any desire to have anything other than a friendship.

* * *

The Earl is home, and tonight I'm joining him for dinner.  
I choose to wear black pants, tight-fitting which shows off my legs--and my derriere. A ruffled white shirt, dark green vest, and black coat. My family crest ring, and an opal ring. My top hat and cane.  


Shown into the library, my heart is racing as I see him, and he turns, his face brightening.  
I walk into his embrace, and our mouths touch briefly, then seem never to stop, with tongues digging deep.

"Dear Sherlock, I've missed you. If you don't partake of me now, I'll have to devour you as you eat your food. "  
"Sir, I am at your service, your lowly servant, unworthy of your eyes."  
Smirking, he whispers, "your proficiency at pleasing me is about to be tested. Those trousers lend themselves to observing your bottom", grabbing and holding onto my rear as we ascend the stairs.  
A primal urge rushes through my body. Never have I felt a need like now. The need for the pure enjoyment of my bodily wants.

* * *

I stand by the door of the bedroom, my first venture into this room and observe the bed that could easily sleep four.  
He wastes no time in removing his clothing, but suddenly I can't move!  
Shivering, the urge to run, and panic sets in, grasping onto the side of the dresser.  
"Playing coy my little chattel?"  
God! His cock, dripping, waiting for--.  
Overcome with both need to please and urge to run I slowly begin to unbutton my shirt.  
His hand raises, "no, no. Look at my cock. It's already dripping, waiting for you. Wash my cock off," his words breathy.  
I'm on my knees, on the bed, his thighs spread, welcoming, "what do you wish, my--," my voice cut short when he presses my nose onto his moist, thick member.  
Imprisoning my head tightly against his genitalia I cough, choke.  
"Lick, lick it you ungrateful lackey," his hips shivering with his growing orgasm.  
His liquid spurts, coating my face, his cock, and pubic hair.  
His gruff voice commands me, "wash my cock with your tongue, little servant."

* * *

Getting off the bed he washes off and eyes my hardness through the trousers.  
"Go ahead, take care of yourself."  
Unbuttoning, I begin the rhythm, eyes closed, waiting for his touch.  
I hear the door close, open my eyes and--what happened? Did I do something wrong? 

* * *

Walking downstairs into the dining room, Frederick is sitting, his dinner on the table.  
"Sit and eat," he beckons.  
Confused, I do as he asks and I'm brought a plate.  
My hand rests on his, and he pulls it away.  
"Was it so bad? What I did?"  
"This is only a game. Do you understand? There are to be no uncontrolled emotions. Just a game of sexual enjoyment."  
I push my food around on the plate. Is it only for his sexual enjoyment that I am-- ?

* * *

Dinner is finished, and we've hardly spoken to each other.  
"Now, my faithful servant, would you care for more games? I might grant you an orgasm or two--if you behave," throwing his napkin on the table, standing and extending his hand.  
I want to please him, although some small part inside clammers for more.  
He leads me up the stairs, into the bedroom.  
"Clothes off and on the bed," playing the role presented to me.

"Are you truly my servant? "sitting down.  
"Yes my lord," my cock half staff.  
"Hands up," his nails rake over my nipples, causing me to buck, shrieking in pain.  
"Such a lovely cock, so easy to rise, so easy to--," his hands form a fist around my cock, and he drives them, yanking, twisting until I let loose with a yelp and come.  
"That, I hope makes up for my use of you before," undressing while I catch my breath.  
"Should I clean up?"  
Laughing as he lies down," How does it feel?"  
"I'm sorry, but I don't understand?" unsure what he's expecting.  
Pointing down his body," examine that piece of flesh. Aren't you humiliated to see it lying there, flabby? And you want to place your humble self above my needs?"  
I bow, already sliding between his legs, "Lubricate me, my faithful man, my cock waits for your tongue."  
In the fading light left from the fire, his eyes carefully watch.

Teasing, I play my tongue around his thighs, to the underside of his knees, sucking, licking, tasting his saltiness.  
"Damn, servant, what are you waiting for?"  
"Master, you do me a disservice. Give me time to--" kissing his balls.  
"Ahh, ohh, shit,-- damn, hell" his voice cracking.  
"Sir, tis a disgraceful thing to hear those terrible words come from the likes of royalty."  
"Shut up you prick and suck," snickering.  
Watching the play of emotions that flicker across his face, I lick up his stem, around the tip, and down.  
"Stop," sitting upright.  
" I want to enter your most private chamber, claim you for myself."  
Taken aback, I sit on my haunches. How calmly he asks for the most intimate of--the infringement of something so untouchable.

"Your royal highness-- is expecting-- much-- from your-- servant," in a quandary. Can I--would I allow--?  
"I'd love to enter your ass, but not by force. You must be willing."

images of --what? --flash by. A man--blurry--washed out.  
Pain--fear--pain.  
fright--flight--run--.  


Whirling--dizzying--Blackout--

"Would you let me try? Continue in this game we're playing?"  
"I'm not--I don't know, "

Strange mixed ideas. Yes--no. Why?  
" Frederick, your Earlship, I'd like you to try, but I've--."  
" I recognize this as untrodden territory. You can change your mind now."  
I can tell I'm flushing. The heat reaches to my stomach.  
Should I do this?  
I shake my head in the affirmative.  
He's off the bed," I'm going to explain in detail what is going to occur. If you want to stop, say so."  
I hear something tear. " I'm putting on a condom and using a lubricant."  
"Get on your stomach doggie style, lowly peasant. Show me your ass."

The bed moves, he's behind on his knees, a slap on my posterior surprises.  
"Does my lowly man like his cheeks spanked?"  
Biting my lip, "whatever your grace wishes, I deserve."  
The Earl hums his approval.

"I will spare the thrashing for now. You are a dutiful attendant. I am going to lube your hole and place a finger inside. Don't tighten."

Jumping slightly, the chilliness of the gel, the feel of his finger. Some deep emotion stirs. I squeeze my eyes shut, bite my lip. Stroking my hole, his finger wiggles and I moan.

His digit enters and instinctively I try to push him out.  
Oh no! Another finger! I can't! The piercing, the sting! I fling myself forward onto my stomach, into a ball, "no, no, please don't," sweating, my voice raised, biting the pillow.  
He steps off the bed, sits on the floor next to me," I won't. Let's stop here. Let me cuddle you. Is that all right?"  
"Stop, stop!" screaming into the air.  
"Sherlock, I'm not near you. What is wrong?"  
Whimpering--Pain--fear--pain.  
fright--flight--run--.  
"Do you want to wash?" he says, distressed.  
"No," face still buried into the pillow.  
"Can I come up and cuddle you?"  
We sleep, but not in each others' arms.

* * *

Breakfast that morning is uneasy.  
His fork poised, he leans toward me," Sherlock Holmes, you have been an enjoyable accomplice in this charade. I hope I haven't taken it too far."  
Shame engulfs me, but I quickly hide it," it was a pleasure, my pleasure."  
His smile is a joy, and he breaks off a piece of bread, "Good. When I'm home again, we can continue."  
"Oh?" sagging in my seat.  
"Yes. I will be gone just a few days. And next week will be my fan party, and I want you there," buttering the bread.  
"Frederick, you know how uncomfortable I am in that situation!" shifting in my chair  
"I will be in the room with you. If it is too difficult--" his tone sharp, not allowing me to withdraw.

* * *

Grey trousers, a bright red vest, white shirt, red tie. My coat flares out slightly at the waist and has a red-stitched buttonhole on the collar.

Making my way into the parlor Frederick is in a beautiful grey and blue pin-striped jacket. Somewhat colorful for him.  
He sees me and waves, continuing to talk to two young men.  
The others in the room are nearer my age than the host. How thoughtful of him! Makes me feel somewhat more secure.  
Stepping into my space is a man dressed plainly in black trousers and a coat, and a white shirt. No adornments.  
No, I think to myself, not steps but more slither like a snake. I can't help but clear my throat, an unexplained tightness.  
I promptly turn to find my escape--Frederick.  
"Mister Sherlock Holmes. The great, the one and only", the voice teasing, daring.  
"Your savior is busy fucking my friend. But you--?" raking my frame with dark flirting, but menacing eyes.  
I'm stuck to the floor, something about him terrorizing me. But from where do I know himom? What about him is making my blood run cold?  
His fan is closed, and he lays it on his forehead( you are arousing me)  
Didn't need the fan's words for me to notice that distinguishing feature!  
Sitting himself down on a dark green loveseat, he pats the spot next to him and, with misgiving I sit.  
"I must confess I mortified that I do not recall where we met."  
"Mister James Moriarty," a mock bow at the waist.  
The room tilts, sudden revelations reveal itself, breathing quickly, I rock back in shock and find myself getting to my feet.  
His fist closes on my jacket, pulling me down, prohibiting any movement by grasping my arm, squeezing, shoving me.  
"No. no, let me go," heart drumming, sweat trickling down my back.  
His leg is thrown over my lap, his free hand squeezing my fly.  
" You do remember," shamelessly giggling, "our one night together. You were glorious, so depraved in that bed. One of those nights, I have never forgotten."  
" Come, play nice," leaning in his lips close to my neck, I pull furiously away.  
His hand moves from my fly to his, and he starts to unbutton.  
"I need a good suck," forcing my head down.

As my head goes down I notice two legs in my view and a voice speaks," Mister Holmes, I need your assistance. You will excuse us, sir?"  
He reaches out his hand, and I accept it while he pulls me up, shepherding me to a corner of the room.

"Something was wrong, was it not?" touching my face gently," was it too much for you?"  
Stumbling over my words, catching my breath, "I--remember him from the university. He--frightened me even then. He claims--I spent a --night in his bed. But--I used cocaine back then-- and--."  
His arm around me he dragged me out to the library and sat me down.  
"Cocaine. You never told me," he says, a glass of whiskey poured and handed to me, "and this man, who by the way, I have never seen before. What about him?"  
"Yes, I used-- a lot. I would blackout. Mister Moriarty approached me to relate one night of sexual adventures. I'm not sure whether--,"  
"Let me go back and tell him to leave," stepping towards the door he stops, "Do you want to talk to Mycroft? He might have more information for you."  
"Don't be daft. He's the last--."  
Waving his hand, dismissively, "all right."  
"I'm sure I'll not see him again."

* * *


	3. How it Happened

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James relates the rape to Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTICE! A VERY graphic rape scene.  
Revised and revised. I tried to convey why James rapes Sherlock and what Sherlock's reaction is.

I've had a long day. Tired but not ready for bed, I change to loose sleeping pants, a white shirt, and my dressing gown.

The fireplace lit, tea, biscuits, and a book all laid out for me, ready to settle in my favorite chair when I hear a commotion in the hallway.

In steps James Moriarty, with a harried Everett, my servant following, wringing his hands," Sir, sir, I protest--." he says.  
"Get your man off me," James shoves Everetts' hands away from him.  
"Everett. It's all right. Let us alone please," and wait for the man to leave before I say, my anger held in tight check, "Sir, what are you doing barging into my house? You know you're not welcome."  
"And why not?" brushing off his coat as if someone had dirtied it.  
Stepping up, too close for my comfort," you will allow me to stay. You do understand that you have more to lose than I," so close I can smell his breath.  
"How so Mister Moriarty?" repulsed, but somewhat curious.  
"Everyone knows I'm gay. I live on the outskirts of society," giggling, "but you, my beautiful-looking man, and that brother of yours--. What would happen if people found out about these little soirees you both attend, " he pouts, "not that I would--. No, not me."  
"Are you attempting to blackmail me?"  
His hands cross over his heart," Never speak of that! It is despicable! But--since you brought the degrading subject up--and since I'm not above using every means to achieve my purpose-- yes," gleeful laughter, almost sinister, dancing on his toes.  
"And why do you think I'll give in to your wishes?" repulsed, enchanted.  
Both.  
"You should be highly interested, because my beautiful one, I'm sailing for America soon, and you, yes, you--," pointing at me, "are going with me."  
I can't believe his boldness and this idea that I would even think of partnering with him.  
"Why would I even consider this, this idiotic plan you have," moving to the other end of the room.  
Picking up the book I intended to read, he thumbs through it, so at ease, so unemotional, "my dear Sherlock. I need your services. Your money, to be exact. And your status."  
Placing my book back, he sits and waits.  
Waits until I turn to look at him, "I have business endeavors that need closing. I expect it to take about eight months. You can open doors I can't. And--I can stay at those swanky hotels you love."  
Rocking on my feet, staring at the fire, I hesitate, "and if I don't join you?"  
"Oh, stop, Sherlock. Surely you know I would--."  
"Yes, yes, I understand," snapping at him.

Brushing off his trousers, he informs me he owns a shipping company and has just put down feelers in America to go international. Of course, I suspect some, if not all are illegal.

"I intend to open doors using your name. Make me sound more legitimate."  
Catching his breath, inhaling, "and--I want to be your bed partner."  
"What?" I snort, standing straight, outraged.  
Cocking his head, "don't be so surprised," rising, "I give you until tomorrow to decide. If not--certain newspapers will hear--well, certain things."

He starts for the door of the parlor, turns, "wait a moment. Why not a preview of our--bed adventures," slinking towards me, his body leaning against mine, entangling his hands in my hair.  
He whispers in my ear, "Come on, baby, you know you want to. With me, you'd be free to lose your inhibitions. Give it all to me. Let's see what Sherlock Holmes has inside him."  
I feel him palming my crotch, try desperately to push him away, but the hand in my hair wrenches, keeping me close.  
"Just a little taste of what you can do for me?" teasing my earlobe.  
Sweat breaks out, my knees quiver.  
His hand is tormenting my cock.  
"Sit in the chair," guiding, shoving, until I bump into the armchair and fall backward.  
"No, no," I tremble with an unknown terror but don't resist while he loosens the string and pulls off my pajamas.  
"Stop, stop," I whisper.  
Ignoring those whispers, his shoes, and trousers are thrown off, he straddles my lap.  
"Yes, baby, yes," his fist wraps around our cocks.  
I don't; I can't struggle against my panic. My arms are pinned at my side against the chair.

Fisting violently, intuitively, our cocks held tight, my hips rotate of their own volition.  
"God damn another helllll!" as he squirts.  
Slipping off me, he loses his balance and falls to the floor, giggling.

I sit in confusion with my penis still erect, still asking for relief.

"Oh, how wicked you are! Your cock, look, still waving in the air, my spunk all over it," his finger touching, only making me shiver more with the deep need to--.  
"I finish you off tomorrow. I'll be back then to make arrangements for us to leave," standing, pulling his trousers on and with shaky legs moves to the door.  
Saluting," oh yes, thanks for letting me masturbate."  
Pensively, sitting precisely the way he left me, I wonder what's wrong with me. On the one hand, I'm terror-stricken to be in his presence but, conversely, captivated by his boldness.

Be careful, Sherlock. He is also bold, smug, cheeky. Unafraid to demand, to be greedy, to recognize what his goals are, and reach for them.

The rain is driving hard, and I forgot an umbrella and run to the front door, open it--heart beating heavy, a mix of feelings.  
Everett hands me a note.

Will be arriving after dinner. I'm dessert.

The turmoil both in my stomach and head under these circumstances keeps me from eating.  
I wait, pacing the room, my hands clenching, my unease, my conflict dizzying.

He struts into the library, a black briefcase under his arm.  
"Good evening. I hope your day went well. Here," throwing the case on the table," this is the reservations for the ship and our hotel. Upgrade them. I want a suite and two bedrooms on both. Also, go to the bank and remove $4,000 in cash."  
My eyebrows raise, "Why that much?"  
"I will be playing a gentleman and will need available cash for sundries. I've ordered new clothes also."

Down on the love seat, his fingers play staccato on the arms. Is he anxious? Worried?  
I have to ask the question that's been burning in my mind since our meeting.

"James, what--did- what did--happen that night?" my head bowed, legs going weak.  
"You find it necessary to know?" he sighs.  
"I have to," emphasizing each word.  
"Okay, you'd best sit. You're not going to--, "humming, his hips churning, "oh god, Sherlock, you were a sight! Thinking of it gives me--."  
Fingers reach to his chin, "thinking about this; I would prefer my dessert first."  
Shivering, knowing it is inevitable, I slide my trousers down.

He laughs," oh, look at you! A limp cock. But we can take care of that quickly, no?" dropping his trousers, his penis alert, he pauses, "do you have a name for your penis?"  
" Why would I?"  
His laugh, maniacal, "mine is 'big Jimmy. Do you have a middle name we can use?"  
"My middle name is Sherlock. My first is William."  
"Big William. That's good. Although it doesn't look it right now," beckoning me towards him, his finger traces down my cock, stirring it, and I breath deep.  
Why am I allowing him to--besides the need to keep a secret there is a draw, a shivering necessity for him to unravel what hides deep inside.  
"Sit on my lap, and let's continue last night's adventure. Only now, you fist us."  
Nervously, I take both our cocks and surround them with a hand and feel him tremble.  
"Both hands god damn you and pull hard. Give our cocks a workout."  
Harder and faster, the only thing mattering is the developing tremors in my hands and the sensation of my cock rubbing against his.  
I come, dribbling on us, and he follows, the sensation so high, I slump against him.

Cleaning up and dressing, we're sitting across from one another, and he begins, "maybe you should have a drink, Sherlock. Maybe more than one," a giggle escapes his lips.  
"No. Do you want one?" afraid of standing, of showing my apprehension at learning of that night.  
" Ah, no," staring up at the ceiling as if he saw it again, reliving it.  
"It had been a night I will never forget. My Sherlock, lying there-- "sighing.  
"Don't. I can't recall any of it," afraid to let him know I have nightmares, have terror.  
"I had been watching you, secretly, while in our classes. Envious of your intelligence and your looks. My cock would twitch every time you were near."  
"I never noticed you--,"  
Sitting straight up, he sneered," of course not. You were the highbrow, and I was nothing more than the dust under your shoes. I hated you for that."  
His fingers drum on the arms, "I had to find a way to bring you down. To debase you. I both loved and hated you."  
Taking a breath, " My buddies and I were drinking and making crude jokes about the upper class. Your name came up. I kept my mouth shut, but with every drink I took, I was determined. Tonight was the night. I weaved my way to your room, thinking to call on you and--", pretending to clean a nail.  
"I was staggering, soused, out of my mind."  
"How did you get into my room? I kept it locked."  
"When I knocked and called your name, you didn't answer. I turned the knob, and it opened, wallah!"

Pausing, "the sight of you made me almost sober. I could make you out in the dim light, splayed on the bed, naked. On the sheet was your drug paraphernalia. I called, and your only response was to shake your head and mumble. I locked the door."  
"I had the hardest most insistent hard-on. My clothes came off and shoving the needles and such to the floor; I climbed next to you. God, you were beautiful! Your lips, those nipples, and that cock just waiting for--for whatever I wanted to do to it."  
A hand rubs between his legs, moaning," I'm going to give you every fucking detail."  
Don't tell me, I think, trying to rationalize, but something perverse leads me on, not to answer.  
And that gives him the impetus to continue.

" I spread your legs, lying on my stomach between your thighs. I had to smell you, to taste, sniff your scent, lick balls, cock, and shit hole. Hell, I nearly come then. I twiddled your hole with my tongue and fingers. It was such a high to watch the skin move. Like it was inviting me. I was squirming so much my cock was aching. Couldn't stand it and shoved two fingers in. You cried out, it but didn't stop me."  
"No, lubricant?"  
"Come on. I was high. High on drink and high on you," sputtering.  
"You were so limp I could easily raise your legs over my shoulder, and the tip of my cock just about made it into your hole before I spilled."  
"I laid there and let you--?"  
Snorting, "you yelled out, of course, but I covered your mouth. You couldn't have lifted your pinky off the bed, let alone fight me, "standing, stretching.  
" I kept wishing you were conscious enough to fight me, but it didn't matter," unbuttoning his trousers, letting them fall to the floor, sitting down.  
"Sorry, but I had to do that. Jimmy was dying to show himself to you."  
I stare at his cock, hard, demanding.  
And deteriorate into a massive shaking of my body. James was taking control of me just as he had years ago.

"The next time I rolled you onto your stomach and spread your thighs, on my belly, in between. The smell! Sweet. Your soap but now also my come. Sour. The song 'three little Indians' came to my head. I sang, 'one little' and poked in one finger, 'two little' and three in as I sang, and the sounds you made! Oh, your groans! It made me almost sorry for you. I tried to get you on your knees, but you kept falling back. And here's the best part--," he stops.  
"Look at me, Sherlock. See what you've done?" his cock stiff, oozing, pointing at me.  
Rocking in my chair, my hands raking my hair, I'm nauseous, frozen in time past.  
"Shoving and pushing in and out with my cock dripping, waiting. I continued until the tenth little indian."  
Spellbound! As if I was hearing about someone else, someone I didn't know. Needing to discover more. But terror-stricken at the same time.

"I had to," stopping to rub his cock," push you to the edge of the bed, your knees touching the floor. I kissed each fucking cheek, and rammed my cock into you as hard as I could, coming so bad that I couldn't stand. You screamed into the sheet."  
"No, no, no," convulsing, losing all sense of what and where.  
" I pushed you back on the bed and slept. When I woke, I knew you were still not aware of me. Your cock lay, limp, and for fun, I teased it, but it stayed soft. I kissed every part of your body, spraying my come once more on your stomach. And left you!"

My face wet, sobs wrenching my body, I sink to the floor, a lump of nothing. Barely understanding, barely hearing the next words he speaks.

"When you didn't show for class or dinner, the dean came with keys, and by then, so I heard, you were almost lucid. From what the rumors were going about, your room stank of cocaine and spunk. It was my spunk. Nobody knew that but me, my secret. My secret fuck."

I feel him raising my head, knowing he's on the floor, next to me, touching me.  
"Your brother was called, and the whole mess went away. I imagine he paid off everyone."  
"Why,--"sobbing," why--did you--how could you recall--? Why, why?" my voice drifting away. Into nothingness. Into a dark place.  
Pushing, shoving my rapist, trying to get away, he's not letting go. "Sorry, dear, but you again have excited me to no end. Nature calls," vaguely aware he's pumping his come onto my shirt.

Huddled into a ball, his lips touch mine, kissing, and he giggles, I'll see you on the ship."

And I'm alone.

Can't, don't. On the floor, crumpled into a heap. I sleep.

I recognize when Everett steps in and leans over me, shaking my body.  
"Mister Holmes, what in the world--," sniffing.  
"Don't move. I'll be right back."  
Between my lip, he slowly pours some whiskey down me. I gag.  
"Let me help you up," and he drags, pulls me upstairs, undresses me, and sets me into the shower.  
"I can do this myself, Everett. Thank you."  
"I'll set out some clean clothes and get you tea. You stay in bed today."  
I wrap myself in my covers, more tears, more sobs rolling out. Crashing my fists into the mattress, rolling back and forth in shame, agony and--something unknown that keeps creeping into my--. And I sleep.

Two days later, I receive a note from Mycroft. I knew what was coming. Big brother was alert to my removal of such a large sum of money.

As soon as I arrived, he didn't wait for any niceties, but plunged right in," I understand you are traveling with a certain Mister Moriarty to American. Why?"  
"I have business dealings with him. We are partners in a shipping company."  
Looking in that intense way he has," Don't give me that! He's a shyster. And he--,"  
I raise my hand to stop his chatter.

"I know what you are going to say. I am an adult and fully capable of making my own decisions. I am going. Now, if there's nothing else of interest you have to say, then I am delivering my goodbye. Until I return," and without glancing further at him, I walk out.

Was he going to tell me about the rape and his part in the coverup?  
Did he know who the rapist was?  
Could he have investigated that? And if he did, why not banish Moriarty to some solitary confinement?  
I deduced that my brother could find nothing about the man who had so terribly abused me that night.

Why was I going on this insane voyage with an even more insane person?  
Blackmail?  
Was that the reason, the only reason!  
No, I was horrified at his daring. His boldness. And his ability to recollect the details.  
Is this what happens when you are forcibly used?  
You, as the victim, are both repulsed, sickened, yet admiring and impressed.  
An act of which he was capable of carrying through without a thought to his victim.

Was he a rapist?  
Yes, he took advantage of me.  
Had I been seeking it all the time?  
I don't remember paying attention to James, but looking back, I see him always on the periphery, the outskirts, staring.  
Giving me a whisper of a smile when I did turn his way.  
By ignoring him, did I lead to his deed? Did I deserve it? Could I have paid more attention to him?

A small voice inside me keeps whispering,' have him do it again. But with you awake and aware.'  
I shiver each time I think of him taking control of me, tying me to the bed.  
My hand invariably goes to my penis, whispering, "hello, big William."  
Never can I express these feelings out loud. Not to him or anyone.  
I can't make sense of it. What would happen if he did find out? What would I become? A sex slave to him?  
Drawn yet repelled, I know my future lies with James Moriarty and is not mine to control.


	4. One More Fan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and James are ready to leave but attend one more of Fredericks fan parties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is short, with no real erotica

I receive an invitation to attend a fan party at the Earls' house this coming Saturday night.

There's only four days left before our ship sails, and James has kept me busy with details that, to be honest, he could have done for himself.  
I have no friends and therefore no one to say goodbye to.  
I know that's not true. I do have someone I want to see.

Many times I ride by Mycrofts home. Not to hear my brother's words of wisdom, of course, but to be in the presence of John Watson. To memorize his voice and his gestures.  
Each time my driver asks if I want to stop, I take a breath, and we drive away.

Going to this party will be the last time I'll be able to visit Frederick. And maybe, maybe John will make an appearance.  
To go without asking James would be to invite his wrath.

Can I bring a friend?

The returning note--, 'I am surprised by a 'friend' but would entertain both of you.

"A fan party? You? Don't make me laugh!" James collapses on the sofa, loosening the buttons on his shirt.  
"It's at the Earls house, and it would be nice to visit--,"  
"Aha! That's it! The fucking Earl," stepping close, fisting my shirt, "and what devious plan have you hatched between the two of you?"  
"None, James. I thought we," in actuality meaning he," could have one evening of entertainment. We've been working diligently to have everything ready. I thought you would enjoy the--"  
"Okay," letting go and turning to pick up a pastry on the plate," You can play with anyone in the room--but keep away from that sly, old man. He'll only be trouble if you mess with him. Got my meaning?"  
The glare in his eyes. Jealousy!

I dress in my favorite tight black pants, a purple shirt, a black vest, a white coat with gold buttons.  
James is stunning in dark green pants, pale green shirt, a green jacket with gold threads running through, and a matching jacket.

"We look damned good, don't you think?" strutting around me, rubbing my backside, his possessiveness, his eagerness to show who controls who.

Fredericks' mouth drops but quickly assumes a neutral pose as we stroll into the parlor arm in arm.

Greeting us, Frederick maintains a relaxed demeanor.  
I haven't looked at anyone since walking in, but James' eyes rove.  
"Hmm, small group tonight. I do see one possibility, though. Find yourself a partner, Sherlock," he smiles, but his eyes give out a warning signal. He steps into the room, and Frederick's voice, low, meant only for me, "I thought you were avoiding that man. What changed?"

"I don't expect you to like this idea, but we became business partners."  
Opening his mouth, I stop him, "we are sailing to New York for a few months."  
"Sherlock. Think about what you're doing. Rather a hasty move, isn't it? And with this person who, last time--."

His attitude is beginning to annoy me. He has no rights over me.

But my heart is warmed by his caring. And of course, he's right to be anxious about this relationship.  
It both intimidates and grips me with an intensity I've never known.

Sighing, "why are you and Mycroft still treating me as a child. I am perfectly capable of handling things. And I can always crawl back to you, on my knees, lapping your cock--, "

"Stop being sarcastic. I'm looking out for you as your brother is," starting to walk, but I turn him around. "I have a question for you. Why do you host these affairs but never participate yourself?" Crossing his arms," there are few places that are safe for people of our kind--people from aristocratic families who can't afford to be seen at the seedier clubs. The fans allow absolute freedom, an openness. I do host gatherings without the fans for those who wish to have more modest meetings," stepping to the door, turning his head to the side, "and I like my sex private if you must know," and leaves.

Apprehension tightens my stomach as I look around the parlor. I could step out and seek Frederick. No, that would infuriate James.

I jump, my ass being tampered with by an unknown hand.  
A gaunt, angular man dressed in an elaborately sequined jacket closes in again, reaching for my rear.  
I grab at his wrist, looking at his maniacal smile and wait; he's wearing bright red lipstick!  
I stare, unable to believe what I'm observing and become aware of his crotch. Padded obviously.  
"Hmm, beautiful," he's blatantly ogling at the place he had molested before and reaches for again.  
At the same time his fan, held in the unoccupied hand is held closed(Can I feel your ass)  
Don't laugh, I think to myself. And what harm can it do if I let him have a little play?  
In reality, the words of the fan mean to feel my ass unclothed but, not going to do that I bend to let him take his pleasure.  
Facing the gentleman after standing up his fan is now held open at waist level (let me touch your crotch)  
Feeling panicky, I search the room. No friendly face.  
Well, one supposedly favorable, but he's too busy to come to my aid.  
James is sitting on the arm of a chair, trousers around his knees, two men working on his penis.  
I have the urge to choke, to run.

A tap on my shoulder reminds me of the waiting man. His fan is held open and waving quickly (Let me see your cock)  
"Sorry, but I can't do what you are asking."

Frederick is leaning against the entrance door. Scowling--at me.

"Who is that man?" drawing close, while the person I asked about frowns at us.  
He smiles, "that dear Sherlock, is a cousin to the queen. When he comes to any of these affairs, he loves to dress up. Sometimes he even wears gowns. Making you feel uncomfortable, is he?" There's no emotion, just a quiet mocking.

It's James, gripping my arm who next gets my attention, pulling me close, "Didn't the faggot thrill you? I thought he would be a perfect fit. Too bad, you couldn't do anything. I had him once--"  
"Mister Moriarty. I understand you two are going to be away for a while. Can I have a moment alone with Mr. Holmes?" Frederick asks.  
James complies with a nod, stifles a yawn, but I flinch, understanding he's annoyed.

"So, you're going off with this rapscallion. If he needed to, you know he'd have you perform like a circus animal to get what he wants. Think--"  
"Stop," I screech, angry he's hit so close to the truth," I don't want to hear anymore. I am going with him, and that's the last of it."  
"All right," his hands out, "all right. I'm sorry. Hug me and let's part friends," enclosing me in his arms," and if you need me, I'm still here for you."

"You understand that I have to get away," out of his embrace.  
"There's someone I care about, but he can't return my affections," understanding that Frederick will think it's him.  
To be honest with myself, I like him; I enjoy his company.  
But, in truth, it's an unavoidable fact that Doctor John Watson keeps inserting himself into my head at odd moments.

James is waiting at the front door and jumps into my carriage. He pinches my fingers, digging his nails into my palm.  
"Got a quick one, didn't you? I saw you. You and that gentleman you think so highly of," his anger boiling.  
"James, believe me, nothing happened. He hugged me and wished me well, that's all," trying to calm him.  
His fury dies as quick as it flared up.

"Hell, did you see what happened to me? Never had two men sucking my cock. We'll have to give it a try sometime, right?"  
I am not going to answer. Glad this evening is over, and we sail soon.

A knock on the door the next evening, and Everett lets John Watson into my library.

I had been searching for some books to take on the ship and place two on the desk to shake hands.  
Warm, inviting, safe hands.

" I would have thought you would make it your business to say farewell to me. I'm disappointed."  
"Why, disappointed? You have my brother to take care of your every need," reaching for a book pretending to scan it.

John turns on his heel, "goodbye, Sherlock, have a fantastic time," just as acidic as I.  
Dropping the book, stepping close, "No, wait a minute, John," taking hold of his sleeve, "I didn't mean that!"  
John stops, faces me, body wavering, and we stand, our features changing, confusion flickering as our emotions play out.

I step a few paces away, tilts his head, "Your brother is worried about you. And this man."  
"I know. I know. But everything is set in place."

"Are you worried about me also? Is that why you are in this room without my brother?"

"You could have stayed here in England and pursued this business, couldn't you?" he says.  
"Not the same. We'll need to meet certain people face to face. You understand what it is to make personal contacts don't you?"  
Why am I making such cutting remarks?  
I can sense John's bewilderment. It's almost as if he wants to speak up, to say something meaningful but is hindered, stopped by propriety, maybe?  
"Well," half turning away," I guess if you must. All I can wish you is a safe trip and good hunting. See you when you get back."  
I take his hand in both of mine, holding a bit longer than propriety would justify.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING- violence, rape, violent rape.  
A very hard write. If there's mistakes forgive me.

Ship accommodations were meager, but I arranged for us to have the only suite onboard.  
It consisted of a narrow bed, washstand, a small closet, and a mirror.  
Between our bedrooms lay a room with a couch, two small armchairs, and a desk.  
We were told not to bring lots of luggage as there was no room to store it.  
There is a small lounge and a dining room for the few passengers that are on board.  
Surprisingly the food is quite good, and the liquor selection almost adequate.  
James has found a small group of men who play poker and whist and spends his time gambling.

Taken to sitting on the deck, I meet a gentleman who has attended conferences with my brother, and we begin conversing. He asks me to sit with him at lunch.  
We are enjoying a light lunch of salad and fish when a hand rests on my shoulder. I look up to see it is James and smile at him.  
"Why not join us? Mister Walker, this is Mister Moriarty, the gentleman I spoke to you about. We are--,"  
"Sorry, Sherlock, but I've got to run. I'd like to see you later this evening. Nice meeting you, Mister Walker."  
His fingers dig into my skin, and he steps away.

I've eaten my dinner in the sitting room, and the door opens.  
"Ah, you're here. Good."  
He reaches out and slaps me-- twice. "How dare you! Screwing someone else?"  
My hand reaches to my cheek, rubbing," James, I only had lunch with him."  
"And next, it will be the bed."  
Toeing off his shoes, he throws them at me.  
"Get your trousers down and don't say--," he growls, and my cock stands.  
"My Jimmy is going to show you what happens if you even think of fucking another."  
"On the floor," standing by my side, his trousers down, his cock at attention.  
Desire warming, trembling with the need for him.  
He splatters his come over my face and walks out.

I lay on the floor, writhing, letting the carpet's friction ease my grief.  
I feel inadequate when it comes to controlling my mental state. Euphoric and embarrassed. Vulnerable to his every whim.

For the rest of the time on the ship, I avoid contact with anyone. Mister Walker has offered and is confused when I turn him away.

Mycroft has used his influence and acquired a rental of a townhouse complete with servants.  
The owners are spending a season in Europe.  
The location is perfect. Across from Central Park and in the middle of the city.  
We settle in, and the first evening we eat a light meal and get acquainted with our lodgings, the servants, and the rooms.

James has settled into the master suite of rooms as if he owned the house.  
Given the choice of bedrooms, I settle into one down the hall, mainly because of the bookcases that house science and astronomy books.  
One of the servants explains the room belonged to the owner's younger son. He died as a teen from a carriage accident. I don't inquire further, and no explanation is given.

Each morning I look for James only to be told he's gone out. If he does wander in before bedtime, he waves a hand and climbs to his room, shutting the door.

I'm baffled. What am I doing here?

An invitation for dinner?  
A gentleman that Mycroft met some years ago.  
Mycrofts influence is undoubtedly a good thing. I only hope James isn't upset about it.

We are met at the door of a large two-story house.  
A man in his fifties, portly in the stomach, "hello, I'm William McNamara. Welcome to my home, "chuckling at our surprise by his opening the door and not a servant.  
"Can't stand the formality of a butler when I have my own hands to do this job. Do come into the drawing-room and meet my wife."  
Bertha is a large woman, and the frills she's adopted for her dress only emphasize her weight.  
I keep my observations and comments to a minimum at dinner and allow James to have the spotlight.

Finished eating, we gentlemen are in the sitting room, Bertha leaving for the evening, "Cigars, gentlemen? Not sure of the customs in your country, but here cigars are most popular."  
Declining the cigars, we get served an excellent brandy, and once seated, "I'll get right to the point. Are you interested in meeting with some ladies?" The emphasis he places on the feminine is understood.  
Before I can answer, James stands and faces the man," Not our area, I'm afraid."  
Mister McNamara pauses, and stands next to James, looking him in the eye," Well, then, I know of certain 'places,'" he emphasizes that word, "which you can go to in safety. Would that be satisfactory?"  
I'm shocked at the fact that he caught on so quickly, but then I'm still new at this game.  
"Be very careful who you deal with, Mister Moriarty. After all, this country was founded by Pilgrims," and he chuckles.

Our evening ends, and I'm very restless. I can't sleep and can't read. I walk down to the kitchen to partake of the fabulous chocolate cake cook made.  
Entering the kitchen, I hear noises and bent over a table is the chef. He looks up, surprised, and so is James who's cock is in the cooks' backside.  
"What are you doing here?"  
"I was just getting some cake," turning to leave.  
"No, don't go. Come closer and watch."  
His arm reaches out, pulling me in, and I watch in fascination as his cock pulls in and out of the chefs' hole. Would that be me! My cock is tightening in my pajama pants.  
James grunts, pulls out his spunk spilling on the floor.  
Gathering his trousers up, he slaps the cheek of the cook," Sherlock, go to your room and wait for me."  
I trip over myself rushing up the steps and lie on my bed, pajama bottoms on and cock tenting it.  
"Are you disappointed it wasn't you? That I didn't have my beautiful cock up your ass?"  
"Yes sir," submissive, betraying my excitement by my erect member.  
Stepping to the bed, he undoes the string of my pajamas and lowers them to my ankles.  
Pulling up a chair next to the bed, he stares at my cock, waving, pre-come weeping.  
"Pretty little thing," his finger jabbing at the tip, once, twice.  
"Too bad. Too bad. Such a pretty thing."  
Pushing the chair away as he stands, he turns, "but I've already had mine, so you best jerk yourself off," and shuts the door.

I lie still, disappointed. And let my cock wither.  
It's so seldom that I feel the warmth and love from James. Even less the touch of him. Drawn to him like a bee to a flower, as a writer to pen and paper.

He eludes me, but I wait, always patient. Well, not always so.

We receive a note letting us know that Mister McNamara is inviting us to his Club. It states it's for men only. James and I understand what that denotes.

The Club is housed in a small building in an area of industrial buildings.  
Only the tiny gold placard on the door announcing 'The Club' gives it away.

James and I find Mister McNamara, sitting on the edge of an armchair, drink in hand, conversing with a man about his age, balding.  
"Gentlemen, good to see you here."  
James rubs his hands together as if going after prey.  
"Thanks for inviting us," and before we can utter a word, he's away, doing the thing he does best. Follow his prey.  
"Go ahead, Mister Holmes and mingle. Your partner has wasted no time," tittering, he turns his back to continue his discussion.

I'm furious. He's leaving me alone--again.  
But this is not a fan party, and the men are not in various stages of undress.  
It is more subtle in this room, and I'm not as uncomfortable as I thought I would be.  
A tall, blonde man appears by my side, holding two drinks.  
He reaches out one for me, but I shake my head no.  
"Damn, you are a wonderment to see! Would love to have a taste of you!"  
He stands with legs apart, straight-backed, utterly confident, green eyes shining.  
I guess in his late twenties, one of the elite.  
"Would you like a drink, from my glass or your own?" winking, his body leaning towards me.  
Deciding to play along, "your glass would suit me fine."  
Holding his hand, I tip the glass and drink, staring into those eyes, inviting him, daring him.  
His inhale is enough to know I hit the mark.  
"My name is Franklin, never mind last names. I'd love to have you for a quick lunch tomorrow, double entendre intended. Are you available from one to four? If not, two to five? Name it, I'm yours, or you're mine. Have it either way."  
I laugh," you're rambling, sir. But it is a deal. I'm Sherlock Holmes, and one to four is sounding doable."  
He hands me his card, leans in, his tongue lapping at my lips. I smell a floral scent besides the woodsy smell of the liquor.

Next afternoon I have to hire a carriage to take me to Franklin's house. James has left the house early--again.

Franklins' place of residence is small compared to the one we are in, and I'm welcomed into a bright dining room, lots of windows looking out over a well-kept lawn.  
Franklin enters, all tight lines of his body sliding up, arms wrap around, his teeth nip at my neck.  
I pull away, embarrassed at the intensity. I'm not sure how much to play or how far to go.  
"Mister Holmes, Sherlock, isn't it? I presume you're here because you found me attractive. I don't like to mince words or deeds. I would love to fuck your body. Are you interested?"  
"Well, Franklin, I'm astonished by your forwardness."  
"You were at the Club, and I assumed you enjoyed--,"  
"Yes, I admit I do. But--I would appreciate taking more time to know my companion."  
"Well, then, Sherlock, lunch is the perfect time to do this. So follow me."

A light lunch of a salad, fish, bread, and wine Franklin says, "You are a quiet man Sherlock. You say nothing but wait for others to bring their thoughts to the table."  
"I'm sorry. Does that unsettle you?" picking up my glass.  
He chuckles," No, not at all. I despise chattering with nothing valuable to say. I understand from Mister McNamara that you are here in the states for business. No friends here?"  
"None, and it's mostly for Mister Moriarty that we're here. I'm a traveling companion. He's the owner of the firm."  
"Then it would appear you're on your own during the day? He must keep you very busy at night. I know I would, "his gaze penetrating.  
"I would love to escort you around Manhattan. What say you?"  
That's surprising!  
I thought it would be all jumping into bed.  
I light up, "Franklin, I would love a tour. It has a different flavor when escorted by one who knows the city."  
" Good, that's all settled then, "dropping his napkin on the table, moving away from the finished meal.

We adjourn to the library; it's bookshelves mostly of novels.  
"You can borrow any you please, but be advised I am a simple reader."  
"Come, sit next to me," patting the sofa.  
" Would I be able to partake of your lips?" leaning in towards my body as I lean away.  
"Still shy of me, aren't you?" gently touching my thigh.  
"I'm having a fun party next week. I imagine it's out of your realm, but do you know what that is?"  
"Oh yes, I've attended some in England."  
Incredulous, he stares, "Never expected to hear that from you," then pauses and," I'll have the particulars sent to you along with a fan. Do you want to invite your Mister Moriarty?"  
I know there's no choice in this matter and reluctantly nod yes.

The next day we receive the invitation to the fan party, and I show it to James at breakfast.

"I would love to attend," puzzling it out, "and what is this relationship you are forming? Who is this Franklin DeMarco?" his expression pinched.  
"I met him at the Club and had lunch with him yesterday. You're gone all day, and I have nothing to do. Franklin offered to show me the sights of Manhattan, "pleading my case.  
His face darkening, he stands, the wine in his cup is suddenly on my face.  
With a strangled voice, he says, "Follow me."  
Into the bedroom, he's shoving me towards the bed. I push back.  
He hits the desk, stumbling.  
His temper awake, he slaps me twice across the face.  
Pushing me to the floor, lays on me, his mouth hard on mine, sucking my lips, biting, tearing the skin.  
Yes, yes is all I can stop to think as the rush of blood to my head and groin takes over.  
He's paying attention to me, and I'm so worked up I'm almost coming in my trousers.  
"No. no, not like this! Not angry! Please."  
Not listening, I push at him, and he sits up, still straddling my body.  
His hand works my buttons, then his.  
Consume me, ravage me, devour me.  
His mouth begins again to suck at my tongue, and I respond to him.  
Our bodies rock, slide against each other's cocks.  
He comes, moaning into my neck.  
I follow, and James rolls off.

My lips are bleeding, and I realize he's nipped the skin on my neck hard enough to bring blood to it.  
"Sherlock, I'm sorry. So sorry, I was blinded by jealousy. If you want to see this Franklin, you can."

One day walking in Central Park, Franklin buys me a hot dog.  
Standing by the lake feeding the ducks, Franklin, tosses a piece of bread, and says," would you like to bed me tonight?"  
"How strange that you say it in such a polite manner?"  
How strange that you think I'm polite. I would never," stopping to tear a piece of bread and throwing it," be so crude as to force myself on you."  
Thinking about it," I would rather not, Franklin," and he nods his head.  
That is the last we speak of it.

James and I are on the way to the fan party at Franklins' house.  
"Are you sure you want to do this, Sherlock?"  
Not able to say it outright, but hoping James will pick me for his partner.  
He puts his hand on my crotch, rubbing, "let's see you walk in with your cock announcing you."

Franklin walks out of the sitting room to greet us and is amused to see my trousers in the state they are, and too polite to make a quip.  
"It's a small group," leading us into the room.  
"If you want privacy at any time, feel free to go up to the bedrooms. The open doors are the ones usable."

There are only six others, and James heads straight for a short man with a wig that sits cockeyed on his head.  
His cock is out of his trousers, and no one is attending him, his fan open in his hand (I'll suck yours if you suck mine)  
James opens his trousers, and in the typical self-indulgent style of his has the man on his knees attending to him first.  
I want James, and frustrated and angry I stand, out the door, slamming it behind me and sit on the bench in the hall.

"Not enjoying the entertainment are you," nodding towards the closed door.  
"No, I've tried these parties a few times but don't enjoy being part of a group."  
"We all have our moments. Franklin is in the other room. Why not join us?" holding a hand out, I don't take it, but follow him.

In the next room over, Franklin nods as we walk in, and the older man turns to me and says, "Name is Jason Rockefeller. I'm a Rockefeller way down the line of Rockefellers."  
Clasping his hand, "Sherlock Holmes."  
" Is your brother Mycroft Holmes?"  
When I shake my head, yes, he smiles, "I've met him a few times. A tough man to forget. A master at manipulations."  
We all chuckle, and Franklin brings me a drink.  
"Sit and talk to me. Tell me what brings you to New York."  
I understand that this man might be helpful to James.  
I have no notion why I am on this journey with James as I have not had either a sexual relationship nor a business one.

The time goes by quickly, and when I realize this, I walk out into the hallway to see no one there.  
Mister Rockefeller offers to give me a ride home since James has taken the carriage.

No sooner do I step into the room, I'm hit across my face with Jim's hand. Twice. So hard it spins me around.  
"What now?" throwing up my hands.  
"You left the room, you went with some mother fucker and didn't tell me," his rage boiling.  
"You left me, and I didn't know where you were. What's the difference?"  
"No. Stop a minute and listen. We have an appointment tomorrow at Mister Jason Rockefellers office to discuss business."  
His eyes widen, "How the fuck did you--?"  
"I met him tonight. Tomorrow at four," and I walk up the stairs ignoring my partner.

Seated at a table in a sparsely furnished room, three other men sit quietly. We're waiting for the arrival of Mister Rockefeller.  
He enters, and everyone nods a hello.  
James has been quiet all day.  
It's deafening.

Clearing my throat, "gentlemen, I have an idea how to cut our costs shipping way down."  
"Sherlock, please don't--,"  
"James," interrupts Jason, "let him speak. Let's see what he has to say."  
I begin my recitation and feel James' fingers biting deep into my thigh.

Everything goes well, with handshakes all around, but James has a grip on my arm that's telling more than he's showing.

Jason steps to James," thank goodness for Sherlock. He wound up figuring this out. What a godsend he must be to you!"  
The meeting has dragged Into the evening, and I'm hungry.  
I don't say so to James as we finally sit in the carriage.  
He leans forward to speak to our driver, "To my office, please."  
"Why?"  
"Shut up. Just sit there."

* * *

We ascend the stairs to the third floor.  
There is no one else around at this late hour.  
James' office is a mess of papers and books strewn on the chairs and desk.  
I hear the click of the lock, and something doesn't feel right.  
"Sherlock, take a seat in my chair. You have accomplished something I've been trying to do for weeks. And I owe you. Sit, sit."  
I take the plush chair and wait for what I don't know.  
"Feels good, right? And now I need to reward you. After all, you did something special. Stand and come over to this side of the desk."  
Fidgeting, wetting my lips, my cock tight.  
" Remove your shoes, socks, and trousers, please," the huskiness and the sweetness bringing sweat to my forehead.  
"Lean over so I can see your sumptuous cheeks," his voice a whisper.  
"Yes, yes. You need a reward for this occasion. Spread your cheeks wide for me, darling," his voice throaty.  
"Wide so your precious hole is open."  
My cock is trickling its wetness between my legs.  
I hear a rustling, and his hand appears near my cheek--and I freeze.  
"Yes, my darling. I could shot you with this gun. But you did something wonderful."  
"Now to show you how much I appreciate what you did," toneless, quiet, alarming.  
"How dare you," his voice suddenly deep, threatening, "how dare you mock me. Make me look stupid in front of these men."  
I hold my breath, not sure what to say or do.  
"Oh, but how that lovely ass and its hole whisper to me! I have to--,"  
Pain, penetrating, ripping through my asshole, screaming, scrambling to push away.  
His hand grabbing at my shirt, ripping.  
My fingers tearing at papers, nails scraping wood.  
Screaming, screaming. Sobbing, squalling, shivering.  
"Stop, stop," bellowing, bawling.  
"Scream some more. That's my pistol up in your ass. Wonder what it would be like to shoot. Would you die, or would you suffer," the voice shrill.  
Pulling it out, my shivering, convulsing, shrieking, agonizing pain.  
His hand squeezing my shoulder, holding me.  
I feel wetness trickle down.  
" My cock wants to hear you say you're sorry for what you did."  
A pushing in again, pain, yelling, screaming.  
Two hands bear down; his cock vibrates, pulses.  
He steps away, and without his support, I sink to the floor, curling into a ball, fragments of my mind dimly aware.

Shirt is wet. Smell of urine. Hurt, lots of pains.

Shoes in front of my face and a shoe kicks at my stomach, once, then again.  
My breath goes out in a whomf.  
"James, please--"huffing, holding onto reality, just barely.  
"Shut the fuck up. I should kill you and get this masquerade over with. You're of no use to me. I don't know why I thought you'd be fun. Boring!"  
My hair pulled up, tearing," yah," I yell.  
His biting my lips, blood flowing down my chin.  
Head dropped, kicked.  
"Don't you go anyplace! Stay right here," door opening and closing.  
Shivering, hurt, rocking back and forth. Pain, throbbing, pounding.

* * *

A kick in the stomach wakes me.  
"Your James wants you to say you're sorry," on his knees, his breath sour with liquor.  
"Ssssoorrrry!" hurting, curled in a ball.  
"Not good enough. Maybe a sucking would help. You know, like sucking on your mommy's teat."  
"Cccaannt. Help me, please," rocking, shivering.  
"Yeah, have to help you," pulling me up to sit, and I scream in pain.  
"Sucky, wucky," his fingers tearing at my lips, holding my head, hair gripped tight, his cock enters, and his come spills.  
Pushing me down, "James, help me. Hellllppp," voice weak.  
Kicking me, kicking me, I see blackness.

* * *

I wake, the sunlight stabs at my eyes, pain is a throbbing, constant, burning.  
On my knees, screeching, moaning, I fall on the couch, wrap myself in the throw.

* * *

Blacking out, I wake to screams. It's me.  
I try to sit up but fall to the floor, my stomach giving out its contents both forward and rear.

* * *

Waking up, and the darkness is real. It's night.  
Dragging myself to the washbasin, I pull up and wash the gunk off me.  
Moaning, yelling.  
Will James come back, contrite, conscience stricken as he always has done?  
I can't be here. I have to leave.

* * *

Finding my trousers and shoes, I put them on and crawl down the stairs to the outdoors.  
Crouched over, people step away in horror.  
I take money out as a carriage pulls up and begins to drive away, disgust is written on his face.  
"I need help. I have the money. Please," waving it madly.  
He helps me into the conveyance, "Okay, buddy, tell me where, and I'll drop you off. You should go--."  
"No, take me to--" and I barely whisper Franklins' address.

* * *

The driver half carries me out, and to the door, and Franklins man opens it.  
"Mister Holmes! Driver, bring him in."  
Mister DeMarco," yelling, into the house, "hurry! Please!"  
"What in the world, Sherlock! "  
"Help me," collapsing on the floor as both the butler and Franklin grab at my body.  
"He'll follow me here. Help me."  
"Are you talking about James Moriarty? Unbelievable!"  
I can only nod and lie helpless.  
"Get my pants and shirt and shoes, please. If anyone comes to this house looking for Mister Holmes, you know nothing. Also, get my carriage," Franklin speaking roughly.  
"Have to get you to safety and a doctor."

* * *

I know we are in a carriage, and I moan and scream with every bump.  
I hear murmuring when we stop, and hands drag me inside.  
"You'll be safe here. We're in Mister Rockefeller's house. We're calling a doctor."  
I hear as if from far away, my head nodding, ringing.  
I fell myself being lifted and carried upstairs and laid on a bed.  
Darkness closes over.

* * *

White! Blinding white! A ceiling. My eyes seem pasted together. Can't see.  
"Good, you're awake. I'm Doctor Goldberg. You're going to be fine. Let me get Mister Rockefeller, " the words heard as if through a foghorn.  
"Water," I whisper.  
"Sherlock, it's me, Franklin. Heres some water, "holding my head slightly up so I can sip. My lips so swollen, my head spins.  
I choke, fall back onto the pillow.  
"You're going to need lots of rest and sleep. You're safe now."  
Sleep, nightmares, screaming, sleep.

* * *

One time, opening my eyes, I can see, "water," my voice coming as if from a tunnel.  
"You can sit up a bit, sir," a woman's voice-- a nurse.  
She plumps pillows behind my head, and the cooling water is lovely as it slides down my throat. Still sore.  
"How long have I been out?"  
"You've slept on and off most of two weeks, sir. But you're healing well. I'll get you something soft to eat and call Mister Rockefeller," leaving the room.

* * *

My lips still are slightly swollen.  
On my backside, there's padding.  
Bandages, lots of them.

* * *

"Well, good to see you up and awake," as the old man enters, and from his dress assume he's just home.  
"How about some food? No, you can't come downstairs yet, but if you want, I'll keep you company up here."  
"That would be nice. Tell me--"  
"Don't talk too much. Your throat must still be a mess by the sounds you're making."

Dinner comes on silver trays for both of us. Mine placed on the bed, and Jasons rolled on a cart.  
"I know you have questions. Yes, Moriarty did come looking for you at Franklin's. At first calm, but then putting up a scene. He was thrown out. He has no idea you are here, and we're keeping it that way. Franklin will be here in an hour. We have discussed your situation, and I wired your brother to tell him."  
Freezing midway from taking a bite of bread," Why did you--,"  
"No talking. The deed is done.  
He's wired money, and as soon as your on your feet, you are going home--to England."

I find out that Jason and many of his colleagues have removed themselves from James both in business and personally.

Franklin is a constant companion, along with Jason.

I refuse to discuss the nights happening with either of them.  
To discuss it, both humiliates me and terrifies me.  
My nights I wake with sweats and nightmares.

The weeks on the ship I spend in my room, healing in the body.  
Not in mind  
Nightmares assault me, and I sob into my pillow, moaning as the memories assault my mind.


	6. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A healing and confused Sherlock, a new beginning

I may be healed physically, well, mostly, but mentally I'm still a mess. Home in both my country and London, I keep a low profile for a few weeks.  
Mycroft has a doctor attend me, and they both agree I can get around, but with a fraction of caution.  
My derriere is still not well mended, and there are times when sitting, especially on wood chairs, becomes a problem.

I can't stand being cooped up and call my carriage to drive me to Mycrofts house. Maybe even wander further today. The weather is beautiful, and I'm feeling good physically.

Mycroft has been to my home on occasion, but always accompanied by a doctor.  
And it's not Doctor Watson.

"Well, little brother," seated in his parlor, in a soft armchair.  
I decline whiskey, but his man brings out some tea and biscuits.  
"Please, Mycroft. I needed a respite from my four walls. I'm not asking for your advice, your sympathy, or the holier than thou attitude you're giving off now." He nods and takes a seat, pouring the tea for both of us.

The clinking of the teacups on the plate, the crunch of biscuits in our teeth is a good silence--a calming one.  
"I must thank you for the wiring of funds to Mister Rockefeller," broaching a subject that sits between us.  
"My little brother, you found yourself traveling in high circles very quickly. Encounter him at one of the fan parties, I suppose?"  
"Details not necessary Mycroft. Although I suspect you know everything."  
He places his cup on the plate and stands to move to the fireplace, warming his hands," that's not true, Sherlock. I assumed that Mister Moriarty would, by nature, reveal his true self to you. I stayed away from details but never expected--,"  
"Stop," abruptly waving my arms, "don't go into it, please."  
Standing up straight, "would you like to stay for dinner?" taking the subject out of the conversation.  
"That would be nice as long as we do not go into my --adventures across the pond."

"Where is Doctor Watson?" noting his absence while we have our dinner.  
" John and I parted company about two months ago. He told me he had other interests and needed to be on his own. He's rented a flat in the heart of London, and I haven't seen him since."  
"What interests I wonder?" thinking I'm talking to myself, but judging from Mycrofts face I did say it aloud.  
"Well, if you must know--he found himself speculating about someone. Whether that someone could--," his napkin dabbing his lips.  
"Why would he need to leave your hospitality for an unproven friendship or--?  
Unsure whether to say it, "romance?"  
His fork in mid-air," What would drive a man like Doctor John Watson?"  
Clearing my throat, "umm, well, I know his performance as a medical--."  
"Oh, Sherlock. Where are your deductive abilities? Did you lose them crossing the Atlantic?"  
Staring at an invisible something, I scoff at a notion brewing within me.  
"If you are referring to myself--."  
His head sways in the affirmative.  
"But Mycroft, we hardly knew each other," my thoughts scrambling.  
He knows nothing of me now--this new, scarred person.

"There was a chemistry between the two of you straightaway. Your scorn when he was staying here. Wasn't that a touch of jealousy? Envy?" the smirk he gives me.  
"His questioning of your entanglement with Mister Moriarty."  
My brother picks up his glass, takes a drink, " and while you were gone, he constantly probed into your life as a child and your school time, looking into our picture albums. "  
"I admit I admired him but, Mycroft, I did nothing to goad or sway him toward me."  
"I know. You were preoccupied with--another. You do admit to a certain illogical fascination concerning him, don't you?"  
Clenching my jaw, pushing my chair away, "I think this is going too far on your part. I have no desire to punctuate our conversation with the doctor or with Mister Moriarty. So," stepping from the table, "we can say goodnight before--and let's keep it at that."

The next day, again wishing to be out and about, I determine to visit Frederick.  
Discovering he's not home I turn back to the carriage only to hear a voice shouting out my name.  
Stepping out of this carriage, Frederick puts an arm around my shoulder," Sorry, but do come in. I've had to visit my uncle. Not doing well physically."  
Once inside, he offers tea, and I accept, all the while realizing his scrutiny of me is intense.  
"Mycroft would not allow anyone to call on you, and I knew you would eventually call me. I'm glad you're here."  
"I had to leave suddenly--", my head droops, clumsy in my words.  
Closing the space between us, "are you all right? You look-- emaciated," ready to draw me into his arms.  
He sees the tightening of my body and steps away, watching me out of wary eyes.  
" Is Mister Moriarty with you? Did he--."  
Raising my hand to stop him," No, he's not here. At least I think so. It was a disaster."  
"My Sherlock," his voice going to a whisper, "he used violence, didn't he. I heard you were noticeably marked. Can I do anything--."  
"Please, enough of the sympathy."  
"Well, then. Why not stay for lunch. We can find other things to talk about."  
The table is well stocked with meats, cheeses, and bread.  
"Frederick, I'm not going to any more fan parties. Don't get me wrong. Some of the men are, were, wonderful. It is not to my liking."  
"Your wish is my command, but if you grant it, I will invite you to any of the small soirees I give."

Days later, I have an invite to a fan party. From a person who had attended Fredericks and had gotten my name.  
I do not intend going, but Mycroft informs me he is attending.  
You should get back into society.  
That kind of society I don't need, I think, throwing the note into the wastebasket.

The night of the party I've situated myself in front of the fireplace with a pot of tea, tiny sandwiches with chicken, bacon, and a sweet sauce.  
Sighing. Everyone, including my cook, is concerned with my health. It's getting to be bothersome.  
A blanket over my lap, a book to read, food to eat and tea to drink.  
What more do I need?  
I hear the doorbell ring, and taking in a breath, I stand, thinking it Mycroft trying to persuade me to the party, I answer the door myself.

Doctor John Watson! Here on my doorstep! Here!  
"Come--come in," I stutter.  
Taking a few steps into the doorway, he looks fixedly at myself and talking low, "Am I truly invited in, or are you just being polite?"  
"No, no, come in. Surprised to see you," and I lead John into the parlor.

He's dressed in brown pants, a tan shirt, and a tan suede coat.  
Refusing my offer to place his coat on the rack, he removes it and places it on the couch, awkwardly taking in the room, the spread of food, and myself.  
Taking a deep breath, getting my voice back, "forgive me, do you want a drink, some tea, maybe?"  
Realizing what I'm wearing, the casualness of it, "maybe I should change my dress, "moving to the stairs.  
He takes my arm, stopping me, " at one time, that remark would be caustic coming from your mouth. Now," and, letting go of my sleeve, he sits, "it's not necessary, Sherlock. You're good just the way you are."  
I face him, feeling like a little boy about to be scolded.  
He rises and stares intently, "look at you! Thin--all bones. Head tucked between your legs. What happened to the snarling, devil may care, man? And what is all about the scar on your face?"  
As he's going on, I turn my back on him, willing this to stop--this intense scrutiny of my physical and mental state.  
"First and foremost, I am going to take care of you, but as your doctor. And also--" before I can stop to consider his words, he turns me towards him, reaches for my face, pulls it closer, and draws a light kiss on my cheek.  
Both of us pull away, myself by the fireplace, and he to the window.  
"I imagine your brother has informed you of my move--"  
Interrupting his speech, "I'm not the same person as before I went to America. I've changed."  
"Well, first of all, that's obvious."  
"Sit awhile, please," my heart rushing as I take a seat across from him.  
"What do you expect of me, Doctor Watson--,"  
Lifting a hand, "stop the formalities. I'm John to you," rubbing his chin with his fingers.  
"What did that kiss mean?" reluctant to hear his reply.  
Sitting back in the chair, his legs crossed, Johns' face is thoughtful, eyes turned up to the ceiling.

"From the moment we met, I found I was attracted to you. Yes, your beautiful body and face, but the way you carried yourself. The professor curtailed any meetings between us," snorting his disapproval.  
"When I moved in with your brother your actions on that night were so obvious. You were jealous and I understood then that it was mutual chemistry," stopping to peak his hands together to his chin.  
"Now, I am free to do as I wish. And--I wish to be your companion. In whichever capacity you want. Now, your turn to talk," removing his hands and setting them on the arms.  
The crackling of the fire, the ticking of the clock.  
" I would love to pursue a romantic relation, but--as far as sexual--," and here I falter.  
The crackling of the fire, the ticking of the clock.  
"Look, my friend. This is not a poker game. Don't have to ante up. We can take our time. Go to a show, play chess, listen to music. Whatever makes you happy. And--if you wish to take it further, I leave that to you."  
Further, he says. How further do I--?  
With a sigh, I nod and," John, I agree. Would you like to meet tomorrow for tea and a couple of games of checkers? I love that game."  
"Tomorrow then," standing and turning to the door.  
I grab him by the waist, pull him in for a light kiss, and he's off.

Slowly, step by step, I ascend to my bed.  
What do I feel for this man?  
I don't love him. Well, what is love anyway!  
Lying down, I stare at the candle's flickering light and something in my memory--.  
Candlelight--James and I sitting in a restaurant--the sole people--staring into the eyes of each other.  
Candlelight flickering, the waiter, patiently standing beside the table, hinting at the time to leave.  
Candlelight flickering--the only glow on his chest, heaving, the silken sheets woven into our legs, his face open, adoring.  
"James, oh James," I whisper, tears staining the pillowcase.


	7. Back Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is Sherlock doing?

I must have read the same page over and over, and I still can't recall a word.  
This very morning John and I had gone for an early breakfast, and I walked him to his clinic. I hung around, nothing to do for the rest of the day.  
I throw my book across the room in exasperation. I'm bored! No companion, no friends. I could go to Mycroft--no!  
Wondering if John is home, I call for my carriage and drive myself there.  
His landlady informs me that John will be late at the clinic. Something about administrative work.  
Stopping at a bakery, I drive to the clinic.  
No one is at the receptionist's desk, so I call out, "Doctor Watson, it's me, Sherlock."  
Out of an office, he peeks, "wonderful. Come on in. Glad for the company."  
"I brought donuts for us. Do you have the makings for tea?  
"Of course. In the room down the hall."

* * *

"That's why I dropped by. I needed to hear a voice other than mine, "picking up a folder out of curiosity.  
"Ah, no," snatching it from me, "not allowed to do that. Private information and all."  
Nodding, I peer at the bookcase and the medical books, taking one out to study.  
In reality, I'm studying the doctor as he sits at his desk writing.  
"Why are you here, Sherlock. Really, why?"  
"Company," sliding the book back,"-- and to see you."  
He stands, stretches, and the room crackles with the energy between us.  
He steps to me, so close I feel the buttons on his lab coat against my chest.  
My hands go around his face, and I lean in, a punishing kiss to his lips.  
Hard, pulsing kiss.  
I push him down on the leather chair, climb onto his lap, straddling his thighs.  
"Must have you," I garble between nips and bites on his neck.  
John pushes, shoves me away.  
We stare into eyes flaming.  
"Follow me," and we both stand, he takes the lead to another room with an examination bed.  
Pulling me by the shirt towards him, we continue our exploration with lips and tongue.  
Clothes flung across the room, and he's the first on the table.  
Our cocks line up, join as one, the groans and moans drive us further.  
Our liquids pour, our bodies still, our breaths calm.  
And we both laugh at how uncomfortable the damn table is.

"Is everything okay with you, Sherlock?" after dressing, and the awkward moment passes.  
"Yes, I'm fine." But the yes has a hint of despair. Pictured in my mind's eye is the object of my lust.  
James Moriarty!

* * *

It's after a few more encounters that we agree to Johns moving into my house.

* * *

One evening when dinner is over, we're sitting quietly by the fire in the drawing-room when the outside bell rings  
Our servant answers, and there's a commotion.  
Both John and I stand, as my heart pounds, my knees buckle, hearing the voice before I see the face.  
James Moriarty crashes into my parlor just as he did years ago.

"James, you're--here, " my voice cracking.  
Swiftly, John moves to stand between James and me, "Is this--?"  
"Yes, Doctor Watson. James Moriarty, at your service." And James bows, mocking.  


"You enjoy making a grand entrance into my home. What is the reason this time?" every pore in myself screams out. In hate, in lust.  
"Gentlemen," he puts out his hands in supplication," Is this how you treat a guest?"  
"Get out, you miserable--," John shouts, "you are not a guest in this house."  
"John--," my hand stretched out, trying to stop John from rushing James. " please, a moment with Mister Moriarty?" barely above a whisper.  
"Sherlock?" his head turns, looking incredulous.  
"John, please?" imploring, begging him to help me.  
John stands, arms on hips, in defiance, refusing to budge.  
James folds his arms, watching the play between us, the smirk on his face, the outright gleam in his eyes.  
"John, if you don't give us a moment alone, I will be forced step outside with Mister Moriarty."  
He looks, challenging me, and I try to, with my eyes, beg him to go.  
Veins throbbing in his neck, his lips compressed he pulls himself to his full height and walks out.  
"Invite me to sit, to have a drink, why don't you?"  
I can't move, stuck in place, legs won't work.  
James snickers, walks to the sideboard and pours a drink, looks at the chair by the fire, my chair, and sits down. " James," my voice a whisper," why?"  
Shaking, shivering I sit near him, my legs unable to hold me up much longer.  
"Why what, my dear love. Why what?"  
"Why did you--did you--hurt me?"  
Sighing, taking a drink, "unfortunately, that was an error on my part. I lost all control. Actually, I have no control when it comes to you. You're my obsession, you know. That's why I'm here again." Another drink, "will I apologize for my actions? Yes,--to a point. I'm sorry it was as savage as it was. But not sorry for my fixation."  
"What do you mean by that's why you are here again?"  
"Oh, stop this! You are just as bedeviled by me as I am of you. Why look at you now?" and even in the dim light he can see my erection.  
I stand quickly, trying to pull out the crease of my pajama, to hide my passion.  
Before I can step away, he's up against my body, his heat driving me, pulling me into his web again.  
"God, I need you, Sherlock. You're--"  
My hands surround his face, my lips burn into his, tongues driving.  
Our breaths explode, my head remembers where we are, I say," I am in an arrangement with Doctor Watson."  
"That strait-laced, priggish man?" pulling his coat straighter, "I'm staying at the Wilkinson Hotel. Be there at four tomorrow," he says walking out.

Upstairs in our bedroom, John is sitting up in bed and puts his book on the coverlet, "Sherlock, what the fuck is going on? You're not a drug addict; you're a Moriarty addict."  
I sit on the edge of the bed, head down, having a hard time reconciling myself to the draw James has on me.

"Are you going to--holy shit! You are! You're going to see that man again!"  
"I won't let you go. I tell Mycroft--,"  
" I have to, John. You don't understand," getting up, wrapping my fingers in my hair.  
"No, I don't," pulling the covers away, sliding off the bed, his fists on his hips," either you are rid of him or--,"  
As I turn to look, my eyes pleading, begging.  
Picking up his book, his glasses, "you can sleep alone and think about this. I will not tolerate your being in the vicinity of James Moriarty. If you decide so, then you will find your way without me," and walks out, slamming the door.


	8. One More Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James goes too far, talks too much. Is this it for Sherlock?

Sleeping is a problem. I toss one way then another. I get up to pee, think about knocking on the bedroom door John has occupied, but decide no.  
What can we say to one another? It's already been said and done.

* * *

I hear John's footsteps outside my door early this morning. He walks to one side then another and stops in front of my door.  
I throw the covers aside, and just as my feet hit the floor I become aware of him walking down the steps.

I ache to rush out and convince him that it's him, John, that I genuinely care for.  
The sheer error of even speaking those words stops me.  
I do care. More than that. If James wasn't, hadn't presented himself right now, I could honestly say I would love John.  
But the drive towards James is compelling.  
I have to be at the hotel tomorrow.

* * *

Doubt and unease, my stomach tumbling. Haven't been able to eat much all day.

What do I wear? Standing in my boxers, I choose a shirt from my dresser drawer, unfold it, and throw it on the bed. Not good enough.  
Overwhelmed with my indecision, I recklessly throw my wardrobe from drawers and closet onto the floor and bed.  
I inhale a deep breath, square my shoulders while getting my head out of my chest, "All right, young man. Stop waffling," talking to the air.  
What can I wear from this pile of clothes?  
"This is good," choosing my moss green trousers, a light green shirt, and the dark green and gold vest. Over that, I opt for a dark green overcoat.

Tearing myself away from my reflection I wash my face determined to keep calm until this afternoon.

* * *

Walking up the two flights to James' room, the austerity of the hotel surprises me. This is not like James, who has always been drawn to the showy and ostentatious.  
I knock on the door, James answers, dressed in vermillion red from head to his boots, which are a shiny black.  
The door shuts, and I'm shoved hard against the wood door, his hand mashing my groin, his thigh between my legs.  
"Oh, God, you are perfection. I can't keep my hands off you."  
How I love this facet of James! The overpowering, sexual man!  
Pulling away suddenly, he leaves me breathless, my cock tight, waiting for him to continue.  
He strides to the sofa, picks up his coat, and murmurs," Fuck! Have to go. Come on," pushing me away from the door. "Where to, and what for?" down the steps.  
"We have a meeting with two people. You are not to speak. You are my financial partner, that's all. Got it?"

* * *

The carriage pulls up in front of a small cafe, and we hop out, James leading.  
He nods to the waiter who we follow into a small room at the back.  
Sitting at a table is a woman, at least in her forties, her frilly dress cut shows breasts almost to her nipples, her hair dyed a bright red, and surprisingly no makeup. She borders on beautiful.

The man pacing the room is heavy in the stomach, the same age as the woman, but his dress is tame compared to her.  
"Ah, James," he extends his hand," Madame Burlington and I are glad you are here."  
"Sorry to be a bit late. The keeper of my finances, Sherlock Holmes," and he takes a seat across from the lady.  
"Good to meet both of you."  
The man settles in a chair and introduces himself as Barrett. That's all. Just Barrett.  
"My what a handsome young man!" the lady exclaims," sit next to me," drawing a chair close enough for her dress to be in contact with my thigh.  
I accept the seat, knowing it would be impolite to move away. James would certainly be upset.  
I'm unsure of my role, and I ultimately wait until needed.

For the next hour, or so, the three of them discuss James' trip and the acquisitions of various tobacco and cotton shipments.

* * *

During this exchange the lady's hand slides to my thigh, inching close to my groin.  
Her ministrations never come close to, but certainly, affect that area.  
Not looking at her directly nor showing my awareness I allow her conduct to continue.  
"I guess that finishes our business, Barrett. It's been a good compromise."  
Bending closer to Madame Burlington, " may I see your accouterments, my lady?"  
Beaming she, digs into her bodice, removes her one breast, holding it out for us to delight in.  
James eyes me, "Sherlock," his hand placed next to the exposed breast," I know madam wouldn't mind you having a taste."  
I hastily stand," sorry, James, I can't--."  
"Ah, well. So sorry madam. He's a gentleman's gentleman if you understand."  
"Too bad, James. I would have appreciated a fuck from him," her eyes never leaving my face.  
"I know. I know. He's good at it too."  
Rising, I turn my back on them, face flushed.

"James, don't torment him. Leave him be. He's obviously uncomfortable."  
Uncomfortable? Very much so!  
"Why don't you take him home," the lady says, "we have finished for the time being."

* * *

I'm furious that he placed me in such a thorny situation.  
I don't know what he's thinking. He's unusually quiet, for most times when angry, he's molesting either in words or deeds.  
For now, he sits, hands folded in his lap, staring out the window of the carriage.  
I'm tempted to leave him at the entrance of the hotel; however, he captures my arm--firmly.  
Paying the driver, he holds on to me as we climb the steps.  
"Remove off your clothes. And don't ask questions," beginning the removal of his own.  
I lie on the bed face up, cock twitching, firm.  
"Turn over," my stomach begins to churn, and I instinctively close my arms over my chest.  
"Don't worry, my pet. I'm not giving you the honor of fucking your ass." On my back, releasing some of my tension, my arms rest under my head, waiting.  
Squeezing my eyes shut, I hear a whoosh, and my buttocks sting, smart with pain.  
I let out a surprised yelp, my body springing up, "What-- did I do wrong?"  
There's no answer, but a cold object has found my ass hole.  
"Please don't, James, please. Leave it alone."  
I scream when I feel something entering that still sensitive place.  
"No, no. Not again. Pleeeaasse!"  
"It's only my finger. I could do more if I felt like it."  
His finger pulls out, and the strap hits me again.  
I cry out, my cheeks smarting," James, I can't do this. Stop!"  
"My poor little faggot."  
The belt hits the floor, and his tongue is licking my ass.  
"Hmm, soothing, isn't it."  
He crawls on top," I never realized you didn't like females."  
My voice muffled in the pillow, "I didn't like the idea of touching her so blatantly. Is she a--?"  
"No, my darling," his cock leaking its liquid on me," but she is open about loving sex. Most women are so, so reserved, don't you see?"  
"Turn over," stepping off the bed, he straddles me.  
" You should have obeyed and tasted her titties."  
On his knees, he positions himself at my hips and drops down on my cock, his hole encompassing my shaft.  
"Arggh. I love to feel a dick up my ass. So good. I don't want you to spoil it by--"bouncing up and down," coming in me."  
"Hurry, hurry James," raspy, holding tightly to the pillow.  
He hollers, vibrates and slumps on my chest.  
"James, pull me out, or I'll--,"  
My groans settling in my mouth.  
"Here," moving up, his knees on either side of my head, his cock next to my lips.  
"Open up and let me fuck your mouth.  
Rolling his body, he shivers, drains his liquid in my mouth, gagging me.  
He lifts off and lies next to me.  
"James, please. I need--."  
Lifting onto his elbow, " No, you're going to wank off, and I'll have a look-see."  
Against my will, my palms rise and fall clutching my cock.  
He lays a finger on my tip, wet, and smears it on my lips.  
He jumps off the bed, my spunk hitting my chest.

My voice quivering, gripping the washbasin," I don't want to see you anymore. Let me go."  
I see his reflection in the mirror, arms wide open, "go, go?" laughing. "If I'm that terrible monster then why, when I call---you come," giggling.  
"Can't you get out of my life? Stop. Forget me."  
"Isn't it obvious why not, my dear Sherlock? You are an easy mark. I defiled and violated you while we were in the states," buttoning his shirt.  
"And yet, I call, and here you are. I love dominating, and you, well, so malleable. So easy to control."  
My back is to him," there is no love in this, then?"  
His laughter, mocking, biting, fills the room, bouncing on his feet, dancing.  
"My foolish fellow. Do you honestly think I could love someone like you?"  
I have to see more than his image and present my flushed face to him while walking to pick up my clothing.  
"Why physical pain? And mental?"  
Cackling," you must get some perverse pleasure otherwise, why--," laughing so hard he's doubled over.  
Without uttering another word, I pick up my shoes and walk out of the room, his derisive laughter following me down the stairs.

* * *

In my bedroom, on my bed I cry out, I batter the pillow, I rip at my hair.  
How ludicrous of me! How immature to think--.  
From the moment he abused- no not abused, desecrated my body in university to now. Why did I have the stupid idea that he loved me?  
Aren't you just as much to blame? To continue to engage with him?

I have to, want to, need to find the strength to distance myself from all that is James Moriarty.


	9. Fatal Ending and Fortunate Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter, everyone. I had no idea it would change so drastically from the first Fans I wrote. Yes, there is a death.  
Thanks all for your patience while I re-wrote this fic.

There's a need to talk to someone, someone other than John.

* * *

Frederick. Yes!  
Even though I've taken the carriage, I'm out of breath as I rush to the door, knocking. Out of breath from uncertainty, doubt.  
I'm led through a terraced garden and see him bent over shrubs of purple flowers, cutting them and placing them in a wicker basket that is on the ground.  
He smiles, bending and stretching up, saying," Sherlock, glad you came. I can stop this, and we'll sit outside? Weather is perfect, don't you agree?"  
I nod, fidgeting, finally putting my hands in my pockets.  
He looks askance, and walks me to the patio, tugging on the bell pull for his servant.  
"Frederick," not able to wait, "help me. I need your advice," my voice chokes.  
He captures me, holding tight in an embrace, patting me as if I was a baby who needed comforting.  
"Hold on; lunch is coming out. We can take care of you while we eat."  
Close to the house, an awning sheltering tables and chairs are set for two.  
The basket of the flowers is split up. Some are in a vase, and the rest goes into the house.  
A plate of cheeses, meats, and cut up fruit is set on the red tablecloth, along with slices of dark and light bread, and a bottle of white wine.  
Under most circumstances, I would be happy to deposit myself in this setting and let the day slip by.

Picking at the food, eyes downcast, I can't begin to articulate my dilemma. How to phrase it? Will I sound the fool?

A heavy sigh escapes the Earls' mouth, "Sherlock, this is concerning Mister Moriarty and your ties to him. I'll not mince words. In the fan community, he's declared you his--property."  
Shame, horror, self-disgust.

"My friend, don't think I'm not insensitive to your situation. Give it a voice. You can tell me," a hand placed on mine, his thumb traces a circle, warm, non-judgemental.

"I'm aware of his machinations. His use of people. He employs his charm, his smile to accomplish his ends."  
I raise the wine bottle and pour more into my glass.  
Frederick's fingers tap on the table, I look to him, and he lifts the goblet and the bottle and places them out of my reach.  
"Continue," he patiently says.  
I think, words not escaping my mouth.  
"Would you say it's another form of addiction? A substitute for the stimulants you once used?"

"Oh, yes. He dominates my thoughts, my body, as cocaine once did."  
"And that word you used. Dominate. Sherlock, that's what you think you need. But," his fingers tracing lightly down my cheek," you crave love. Real love. And deserve it, my darling friend."  
Leaning into the stroking, I whisper, "Help me--help me."  
"John Watson is the partner you need. Sturdy, calm, and has a strong sense of himself."  
I've made him so angry. I wouldn't be surprised to find him moved out when I arrive home."  
"No, Sherlock. He'll be there. With his arms open wide." It's almost as if he's afraid to speak, opening and shutting his mouth.  
Finally, Would a goodly sum of money and a house in the states lure him away?  
My head tilts toward him, and I'm smiling at his overwhelming gesture, "no. He's captivated by me. He'll always find a way to me. "  
"That, my dear, is because he knows you. Too well, I'm afraid.

* * *

We're inside the house in the parlor, and I'm afraid my sighs fill the room.  
It seems he has something to say, his mouth opening and closing, but finally, " would, would you allow me to find a solution? More permanent? Don't say yes right now. Sit and think it through. I'll be in the library," handing me a glass of sherry and leaving.  
I have no idea how long I roam the room, fingers flitting over the Earls' possessions, staring out the window, seeing nothing.  
My mind strays, thinking of our times together.  
What would life without James be like? What was it that drove me to him?  
Conversation? About what? I am unable to recall. Most times, I stayed silent, waiting.  
"Waiting?" I say out loud. "Waiting for what?" My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. An overwhelming sense of--emptiness fills my consciousness.  
Fist in my mouth, holding back the tears, the groans, I now grasp the primary reasoning, the only logic to this relationship--sex.  
I fall onto the sofa, muffling my shrieks into the cushion.  
Not love, but sex! Not caring, but sex!

And when I didn't behave exactly how he wanted, he showed his rage.

Raising my head, I ask myself, what does Frederick mean by a solution?  
Do I care? Shrugging my shoulders, my body, while my heart peals away, my breath slows.

* * *

The library is a sanctuary, a place of kindness.  
I cannot utter the words, but stand before him, head down, shivering with fear and yet with anticipation.  
A slight nod is all it takes, and he wraps me in his arms, cradling me.

* * *

"How strange, sir. The Earls man delivered this message, and he said to give you the newspaper with it."  
"Thank you, "gripping the sides of the chair; I reach for the bundle, fear gripping my being.  
I open the note, and it flutters to the ground when I read  
_ DONE. Page 3._

And pick up the newspaper, thumbing to page three.

* * *

The front door slams open, and John's hysterical voice screams out, "Sherlock, Sherlock, where are you?"  
Slumped in my chair, arms hanging down, head sunk into my chest, the newspaper clutched in one hand.  
Sinking to the floor next to my chair, "I was at the clinic, and this note came in. It said 'urgent' and when I opened it, and he reads  
_ Go to Sherlock-NOW_  
"What is this about?" his voice a whisper, but sure and steady.  
I indicate the newspaper.  
"Sherlock," he said so softly, with a reassurance. Nothing bad can happen. John is here.  
He squeezes my hand, laying his head on my knee, and we rest there together.

* * *

GENTLEMAN ROBBED AND MURDERED  
Last night one Mister James Moriarty was found lying at the entrance to Halley park. He was stabbed several times in the back. Robbery is the motive. No suspect has yet been found.


End file.
